The Getaway Plane
by kyamei
Summary: A plane with a leaking fuel tank flies across the desert. Undercover as tomb looters, Peter and Neal sit beside two smugglers ready to make a fortune selling an ancient treasure. Once they reach their destination, they will make their arrest. That is, if they reach it... Set in no season in particular. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**A plane with a leaking fuel tank flies across the desert. Undercover as tomb looters, Peter and Neal sit beside two smugglers ready to make a fortune selling an ancient treasure. Once they reach their destination, they will make their arrest. That is, if they reach it... Set in no season in particular, but possible spoilers for all. **

**A/N: Hello again! I am very much looking forwards to this second experience writing WC fanfic. It's been a while, but I really wanted to make sure I had quite a bit advanced on this story before I began posting, in order to avoid delays. I alternate between Peter and Neal point of view, usually marked by a line break (though that will also serve as a scene break). **

**For those of you that have read my previous story on WC, this one has a few things in common, like the deeply-integrated setting, although this one is more character centric, and won't be as long. Still has plot though! I hope you'll stick with me. **

**WARNING: I know people are quite annoyed at the Peter/Neal rift that the 5th season has introduced. I have to warn you that in this fic Peter and Neal are not all together in the same page. Conflict drives story, the problem with the series is that they didn't justify the conflict as we would've hoped. In this fic, I try to justified it as best I can. I can't promise success in this matter, but I can assure you it will be resolved in the end. **

**WARNING 2: Might be dark at points. There will be whump here. You've been warned. **

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><p>Peter climbed up the fold-out steps leading into a plane that looked like it had seen the end of way too many runways, and he took his place behind Neal. Both the smuggler, a young man called Charlie, and the Chief of the Operation were inside, strapped and waiting, and when Peter pulled at his seatbelt the hatch was closed behind him, and the engine whirred.<p>

"Get us up in the air, Benny," the Chief called with a rough voice that seemed out of place with the man's short, wiry build. The man's name was Simon Martins, and both Peter and Neal had spent hours trying to guess his nationality and exact age, to no avail. In Neal's words, he had that indeterminable air about him that proved so helpful to men on the other side of the law.

Neal pulled his heavy headphones on and he turned back, his hands holding the steering wheel.

"Wilco, boss," he said, with the same fake accent he'd enjoyed doing for the length of this case. Peter brushed past him, pretending to be looking for something on the empty co-pilot's seat.

"Can you fly this thing?" he said in a hissing whisper.

Neal beamed.

"Of course I can."

"Are you sure?"

"Always! Trust me."

Peter strapped on his seatbelt. He took a deep breath, and he wrung the fabric of his pants in stress as the plane began to turn and take its position in the runway. Simon noticed, and laughed.

"Afraid of flying?" he said. Peter chuckled nervously.

"You have no idea."

Simon slapped his shoulder and stretched himself on his seat.

"Don't worry, man. We'll be out of this hellhole in no time. By the time we touch down at the beach, we'll all be rich men."

Peter forced himself to smile and he looked forwards. There was a long mirror in the cockpit that allowed him to see the face of the pilot — Neal — and despite the dark glasses and the large noise-cancelling headphones he wore, despite his very convincing disguise, he noticed the grimace on his face at the mention of the spoils they carried with them.

Peter had seen Neal's eyes gleam when they first rested upon the goods that now lay in store in the plane's hold, to be delivered to the Boss. Peter reckoned he must have looked like that the first time Neal saw Adler's treasure, awestruck, speechless, filled with excitement. This treasure, though, was different. It had all been looted from a single millennium-old tomb, and the pieces of gold and silver and turquoise that remained, though poorly preserved, were of incalculable value to history. When Peter had seen them, his first thought had been 'these should be in a museum'. Neal's thoughts, he was sure, had not been of that kind.

To the untrained eye, the contents of the four coffin-shaped boxes in the plane's hold more resembled an antique shop's throwaways. The pieces of silver were black and many of them were broken, the brass was green, the gold unrecognisable. It was not surprising, seeing as the entire lot had been buried in the dark bed of an oasis for almost a century. Neal had guessed the original looter must've found himself in need of hiding the treasure, and left no choice, he sunk it all in the muddy waters where no one would find it. Until now.

"How long do you think it will take you to restore the lot?" Simon Martins asked Peter, who shrugged.

"With my equipment, I'll probably have most of it in selling conditions by the end of February."

"That's a long time."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"These pieces are more than a thousand years old. That sort of work takes time."

"All right, all right. It's a good thing we get the first payment upon delivery, huh?" Simon grinned, then craned his head forwards. The plane was starting to slow down again. "Benny, what's the hold up? We should be flying already!"

"Boss, there's…" Neal sounded nervous. "An obstacle…"

Simon stood and hobbled to the front seat. A government patrol car was parked at the end of the runway. Two officers dressed in green, and a third one in black, were standing in front of the car. The one in black carried a rifle.

"What the hell? We were cleared to take off!" Simon grunted and gritted his teeth. "For God's sake… Benny! How much did you pay the airport authorities?"

"Enough, I paid them enough."

"Clearly, you didn't." He shouted a stream of curses and went to his seat, from where he called someone on the phone. Neal turned back.

"Boss? They're signaling me to stop."

"No, no. Don't stop."

"I don't know if I can fly clear of them…"

"Of course you can. Bush pilot, aren't you? Just get going, I'll deal with this. Just get us up."

"Sir, this might be a light plane but we're heavy laden…" Peter butted in. He looked at the patrol car with concern — they were not supposed to be there. He had talked to the local authorities, he was there under their consent, they were supposed to let them through. And he knew enough of Neal's history to know that despite prior experiences with planes, he'd never flown anything larger than a single-engine. He raised his eyes at the mirror and saw Neal adjusting a lever and then thrusting it forwards. Though he looked as calm as ever, Peter could see a crease forming in his forehead that had not been there before, and his hands were not as steady, there was a tiny but noticeable hesitation in his movements.

The engine of the plane screamed in protest and the wheels hissed. They were almost there now, but still the wheels of the plane were firmly on the ground.

"Boss..." Neal said, turning. "I don't think I can clear it..."

"Do it! Get us up now, for God's sake, get us up!"

"Sir, they are armed."

"So?" Simon scoffed and then laughed. "That guy's government. He's never going to open fire against us, they are not authorised for that..."

"If we hit the truck, we'll be blown to hell."

"You'll be blown to hell right now unless you get us flying."

Peter tensed as Simon stood up from his seat, one hand holding on to the straps of the ceiling, and the other tightening around a gun that he pressed against the back of Neal's head. Hardly even blinking, Neal grabbed the lever and pushed it upwards to all it gave. The chief almost got swept off his feet as the plane hissed and the nose lifted, it rattled, shook, veered sideways, and a screeching sound reached them from below. Peter saw the government officials on the ground making a dive for it, but the car remained at its spot, and he closed his eyes and held his breath.

"Please, please, please," he whispered, his head against his knees and fearing the worst. Behind him Charlie screamed, Simon fell back sprawled between the seats, gunfire from below popped against the metal fuselage, but at the last moment the wheels flew clear off the ground and over the patrol car, and they were flying. Peter lifted his head and stared ahead, at Neal's face through the mirror. There was a satisfied smile plastered on his pale face.

"We're clear, boss!" he shouted back. Simon picked himself up from the floor, brushed his clothes, and sat down on the seat opposite Peter.

"That was close," said Charlie, and he laughed in nervous relief, but no one else said a word.

Peter looked out and saw that below them the green farmland and roads gave way suddenly to a desert so empty it defied belief. No more roads crisscrossed the landscape, no more tracks or houses dotted the ground. All that was left was an ocean of tall, yellow dunes undulating like waves as far as the eye could see.

He'd heard Simon tell Neal that they had to keep on heading west until they reached the ocean, and then they should follow the shoreline to the north until the drop-off point, a beach with an illicit landing strip 30 miles south of the city. It was there that the smugglers' job ended (in their arrest) and the real dealers got on, after refueling, for a long flight to New York. As soon they crossed the state lines, Peter had to be ready to make his arrest.

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><p>They had spent months building their covers for this job. Peter was John Hanover, a broke archaeologist hoping to make a fortune in restoring the artifacts that the smugglers had taken from the desert oasis. Neal was Benny Stern, the pilot, chauffeur, bribes expert, and general makes-things-happen man. His identity said he was Australian but for the past week Peter had noticed his accent had veered to a weird cross between South African and Irish, and Peter had to try hard not to laugh every time he spoke. Now, he could only hope it would not fray so much around the edges to make the real dealers suspicious.<p>

Initially, Peter had been the driver, and Neal the expert, but when planes had come into the picture they'd made the switch, and it had turned out for the best. Even Neal would have to admit that Peter made a much better archeologist, dressed in loose dusty khaki clothes, with round glasses and hair all in disarray. His age made him look more professional, and so far he'd memorised his info so well everyone had bought it. Neal, on the other hand, had seemed to actually enjoy his part, especially since he got to call the shots on Peter's actions.

Peter looked out the window 30 minutes into their flight. Below them a line of beaches and rocky heads marked the end of the yellow desert and the wild, breaking surf, and Peter shifted in his seat in nervous anticipation. He looked at the two archeology traffickers, trying to decide which he'd cuff first, as it would only be 40 more minutes before refueling. No matter how many times he'd been undercover, that moment before the big reveal always unnerved him. Blood would rushed to his chest and he would feel the pressure rising up his throat, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath in. Adrenaline. He wondered if this was the feeling of thrill before a job Neal had told him about. If it was, he really couldn't understand why he liked it.

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><p>Peter raised his eyes to the mirror again, and he paled. Neal was sweating, his fingers shaking as he struggled with the indicators and blinking lights in the dashboard. He kept pressing into a navigation control button, over and over, peering out the window each time. Peter peered out as well, following Neal's gaze. He could've sworn that the ground was now closer.<p>

He leaned forwards.

"What's happening."

"The fuel intake. I think something's-"

The plane lurched violently, and Peter pressed himself back against his seat. Neal managed to get the aircraft straight again, but the sound of the engine had now acquired a different quality, as if a metal screw had sprung loose and was spinning inside the machinery. A clicking, clacking sound, louder with each passing second, and no matter what Neal pressed in the dashboard, nothing changed.

"What on earth was that?" Simon asked, rising up and standing behind Neal.

"I… I'm not sure," said Neal.

"What do you mean you're not sure! You're the pilot, for God's sake!" Simon screamed and his voice broke. Charlie pressed a hand on his shoulder.

"Relax, Simon, it's just a bit of turbulence."

But an alarm sounded then, and Peter grabbed hold of the armrests in his seat so tight his nails dug into the foam. Dread filled him. A red light began to blink above the glass in the cockpit.

"Oh-oh," said Neal, with a calm voice Peter recognised as fake. He pressed at the blinking red button, but the light did not go off. "It's the fuel gauge, Boss…"

"Why is it turning on now?"

"It says we're running low."

"That's impossible. You told me yourself we had enough fuel for a thousand kilometres."

"And we did! Something… something must've gone wrong during take off."

Simon cursed, and got on the phone again, screaming at someone. Peter stood and grabbed hold of Neal's seat for support. He leaned against him.

"Please tell me you're bluffing. Please tell me this is some plan of yours," he whispered. Neal's face hardened, and he did not look back.

"You said the runway would be clear," he said, and his voice sounded grave, even with a little quivering of anger, or maybe fear. Then he turned, this time towards the traffickers. "The fuel tank's leaking. One of those cops must've had a good aim. We've got twenty minutes tops and then we're going down."

Peter looked out the window again, and now he had no doubts. The dunes below towered much larger than minutes before.

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading! I'd love it if you'd left me a comment or review in the box below, and I'll see you again in a couple of days. In the meantime, let me know what you think! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Many thanks to all those who've read, favourited, followed, and especially those who reviewed. You light up my day. Now, I have a lot of this story already writted, but I'm spacing it out so it doesn't catch up with me, so you'll never have to wait too long. I know this may be asking a great exercise of patience on your part, but I hope you will bear with me. **

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><p>Neal grabbed the delicate steering wheel of the plane with the strength that came from knowing his life depended on it. He had not yet lost power, but both the engines were running on low, and the oil pressure and temperatures were off. He tried to remember the layout of the plane, and he wondered which side had been hit. He'd veered left as he took off. Maybe he could pump the fuel left to right, and reach the drop off point on one engine.<p>

"I think we have enough fuel to crashland in the nearest road, if I veer East," he said, turning back. "But I can pump the fuel to engine 1 and fly on that. Then we can reach the drop off point, though it will be tight."

"Veer East," said Peter. "It's not worth it."

Simon stood again, and held the back of Neal's seat. "Not worth it? Not worth it what? Saving ourselves from a crash landing surrounded by policemen and then lifetime behind bars? No. Keep the course."

"It's not worth it our lives! We're much further north, we can get away before the cops drop on us."

"I said no! Don't veer East. Make the switch to Engine 1 and keep the course."

"Don't do this," Peter leaned forwards. Neal heard his voice go low and his eyes were begging him. "Please."

"I can make it," he told him. "Trust me."

He smiled again. He felt it was a most convincing smile, this time, and both men backed down, but through the overhead mirror Neal could see Peter's eyes were still on him, telling him to veer east, to take the safe way out. But then they'd have no dealers to catch, no looters to arrest. He could do this. He knew he could.

"Alright, I'm starting pumping the fuel now..." he said, just as he pressed the right command and the engines lit up on the control screen. The levels began to rise in Engine 1, and go down in 2. The Plane began to fly more smoothly, and he saw Peter's face beginning to relax.

Then a wailing alarm sounded, and the levels of both engines dropped. The plane lurched again, and Neal watched helpless as Engine 2 was starved of fuel until it flamed out, and Engine 1 was set to follow soon after.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it..."

"What's happening? What's happening?" Both the smugglers yelled at the same time so it was hard to understand their words. Neal aborted the pump and the rapid drop in fuel stopped, but it continued to leak, and the levels were already dangerously low. He raised his eyes to the mirror and saw Peter sitting stiff and quiet in his seat. Anger was visible in his face despite the fact that his eyes were turned away. Neal had to swallow hard to keep the trembling off his voice, and still he wasn't sure he succeeded.

"I... I don't know! The leak must've occurred in Engine 1 or somewhere in between, the pump caused it to-"

"Fix it! Fix it!"

"I can't fix it!" Neal shouted back. He'd lost all semblance of calm now. "We're crash landing. I need flat ground, now."

"There is no flat ground here! Look, it's all dunes!"

"We need to go East!" Charlie said.

"There's no time now to go East," said Neal. "We'll be losing all gear in a moment, I can't navigate away from the ocean."

"But... but... You have to do something!"

Neal closed his eyes a second, and took a deep breath. Then he pushed the mirror away so he wouldn't be able to look at Peter, and he rested a hand on the plane's throttle.

"Take out those maps in the overhead compartment," he told the smugglers. "I'll give you our coordinates, you search for the nearest flat land."

Simon traced the lines of a map with his finger, then he stopped, and looked up.

"We're dead. We're all dead."

"What? What are you talking about? Simon?"

Neal's shouting drowned Charlie's breathy voice.

"Where should I head! Where's the nearest flat land!"

"There are no roads, we're right in the middle of it."

"Of what?"

"The sea of dunes. The desert."

"That can't be right, what about these beaches? How do people get here?"

"Dune buggies."

"Dune bugg-Oh for God's sake. Is there a sandy beach? A salt pan? I'll take anything."

"There's a plain of sandstone to the North-East but there's a chain of sand dunes in our way, almost eight hundred metres tall."

There was a moment of silence. Then Peter's voice sounded at the back, shrill and panicky.

"Eight-eight hundred metres tall? That's half a mile. We're right by the ocean, you're telling me there's a wall half a mile tall blocking our way?"

Neal breathed in deep again, and nodded. "That's our best chance." He peered down at the soft, waving dunes he was flying over at the moment. "If we try to land here we'll wind up buried."

Simon reached forwards to where the copilot should have been, and peered at the dashboard."

"We're too low. We're never going to make it."

"We need to lose weight," said Peter. The others turned to him in surprise, and Neal thought immediately of the ceremonial mask that they carried in the back among the other priceless pieces, and how it would look once it was restored.

"Are you mad? We can't lose the cargo," said Simon.

"We'll come back for it. It's been in the desert a thousand years, what's a few more days going to do?"

"We'll never find it! We can't do that," added Neal. Peter cast him an accusing glance — clearly he had been expecting his support.

"We have to! For God's sake, do you know what's at stake here? We're going down."

Neal shook his head. He paled at the prospect of losing all those precious pieces, and he wasn't that good a pilot to handle an airdrop.

"This is not an air balloon, I can't just press a button and drop everything."

"Yes, you can," Charlie said, supporting Peter. "We're barely a kilometre above the ground, the cabin isn't pressurized. You can open the back and the lot will fall out."

"I don't think it's that easy…" said Neal.

"No, no way!" said Simon. "We need to make this delivery. Charlie, we need this. You know it."

"Much good it will do us if we're dead!"

"And what do you think Sanderson will do when we show up late, with no plane and no cargo? You think he'll pat us in the back, say she'll be all right mate?"

"He wouldn't—"

"You don't know him, I do."

"Boss…" Neal stared at the huge mountain of sand ahead, and his voice quivered, but no one seemed to hear him. They kept arguing behind, while he tried to force the plane to fly higher. The engine was starting to sputter. The lights on his dashboard suddenly turned off.

"Are you all out of your minds? We're running out of time, we need to make the drop now," said Peter. Again Neal tried to get their attention.

"Boss…"

"If we make the drop, you go with it, Indiana Jones, no need for an archeologist if we've got no loot."

"I have a wife. I have a family."

"So do I!"

"Just make the drop. Do it now!" Peter shouted at Neal.

"NO! Don't do anything!"

"Oh God, we're all going to die…" Charlie covered his face with his hands and whimpered. Neal spoke a third time, shouting above the deafening noise.

"Boss!"

"What?" All three of them turned towards Neal.

"Boss, the dune."

It rose between them and the flatlands, a sheer wall of rock and sand that shone orange at the top, seeming to reach into the very heavens.

"We're on collision course," said Neal. He saw through the mirror how Simon gulped, and his eyes darted to the crates at the back.

"You know we need to drop it," Peter told him. Slowly, Simon nodded, and looked up at Neal.

"Do it," he said. "Do it and get us to the other side."

Neal let his hand rest on the lever that would make the cargo hold doors open, but he waited a moment before he pressed it. He thought, as the boxes tumbled and disappeared into the desert sand below, that the world had just lost it's chance to see something beautiful.

"Now raise the nose, we need to climb," said Simon. Neal obliged, and the engine screamed and rattled, but the plane obeyed. The dune, however, was taller than it had looked from afar. The winds came from the South now, in gusts so strong they threatened to tear them away from the sky, and through some unknown bullet hole in the fuselage dust was blowing in. Neal gritted his teeth and tried to force it, tried to will the engines not to sputter, but sheer will, it seemed, could not actually move mountains.

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><p>Through the mirror, Peter could still see a fraction of Neal's head, his jaw set so tight the muscles of his neck were showing under the dust that coated his skin. His hands holding on to the controls were steady, but strained.<p>

"I think we can clear this," he said, but Peter didn't believe him this time. Instead he took a deep breath, and braced himself.

"You useless son of a bitch!" shouted Simon from Peter's left. His face was red with rage. "Just raise the goddamn nose!"

Neal paid no heed to him, to his great credit, and he did not freak out or let go, he was focused only on the dune ahead. On Peter's right, Charlie remained quiet, wincing at every dive. When they neared the crest, he placed his hands together.

"God help us."

For a second, Peter thought they were going to make it, that they would fly clear off the mountain of sand and glide smoothly down its other side. Then the vast sandstone plain would open up for them and they would manage a safe landing. For a second, they almost did. Then the wheels of the plane crashed against the crest of the dunes, breaking through the perfect line that crowned it, and Peter felt himself flung forwards as if the entire world had suddenly stopped spinning. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and prayed.

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><p>He'd known force like that only once before, the first time he saw the ocean. Not yet twelve, he'd been young but old enough to be allowed to swim on his own out to where the waves broke, and when he saw the towers of water crashing down on the endless expanse of blue he'd thought nothing could ever be stronger.<p>

He'd been reckless then, as only kids can be.

He swam too deep. When the biggest wave of the set carried him to the top, his feet were far from the bottom, and the beach was a distant line. He paddled, and he felt the thrill of adrenaline and overpowering joy as he began to ride it down. But then it curved under him, he fell out of the crest, and the entire weight and force of the wave crashed on top of him. He rolled and spun, seeing nothing but strands of white and grey, not knowing which way was up, unable to scream. The water battered him like a furious monster, wrapping the whole world in a destructive never-ending swirl, right until it spewed him out into the wet sand.

The plane crash felt like that. The hissing, the roar, the crumpling of metal, the heat of the sand, the stinging sprinkle of broken glass and the strong metallic smell of blood - followed by sudden stillness and eerie silence. The first thing he felt was surprise - and then gratitude, as he found he was still alive. He only felt pain in one foot, where a loose piece of heavy crating had landed while the plane crumpled and rolled down the steep dune to the bottom of the narrow "valley" formed between it and the next mountain of sand.

He breathed with relief. He hadn't even noticed he'd been holding it back.

"It wasn't... that rough a landing, was it?" he said, staring at the mirror where Neal's face was shown, but the mirror was gone. His voice echoed in the metal and he felt even more alone.

"Neal?" he said. There came no answer. He tried to move, and panicked for a second when he saw that he couldn't - then he remembered his seat belt. He unbuckled it and fell forwards, as the plane had dived nose first, and he saw with horror that he could not get past the copilot's seat. The cockpit was crumpled against the sand, completely crushed.

"Neal! Neal, oh God!" he gasped, reaching for what remained of the seat and at the same time unwilling to look. But he saw nothing there other than specks of blood covering what remained of the cockpit windshield. His heart pounded so fast he thought he'd have a fit.

It took him a minute to gather himself, and then, puzzled by the silence, he turned back. The plane was resting on its nose in an angle close to 45º, lying on the side of the dune with the cockpit crushed at the bottom. He realised with a start that both seats beside him were unbuckled and empty.

He climbed using the seats and grooves in the sides to reach the tail, and he stumbled out into a blinding sun, already sweating from the oven-like heat of the fuselage. The landscape around him was surreal, moonlike. Behind him stood the steep slip-face of the dune they had crashed against, with its still untouched crown of orange. In front of him was a dune just as tall, but the side he was facing was the windward side, the one that the powerful south wind blew upon day after day, and it was not as steep. Both dunes, running parallel to each other, formed a narrow v-shaped valley that had swallowed the plane hole, leaving it broken at the bottom. Peter wondered if behind the next dune he would see the flat sandstone plain, or if there were a hundred more dunes. Maybe they had never stood a chance of an easy landing. The place was not called Sea of Dunes for nothing.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading! Again, if you'd like to, there's a box below for comments, reviews, cries of anger, you name it. Whenever you write on that box, I get an email, and that makes me very very happy. I'll see you again in a few days, but in the mean time let me know what you think!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I can't thank you enough for your wonderful reviews. I will do my best to reply to you once I manage to by-pass my office web filtering (I've made great progress). In the meantime, enjoy another chapter. **

**Warning: some blood to follow. **

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><p>Peter walked down to where the sand was harder and the fuselage of the plane provided some shade. He saw the cracked windows of the cockpit from the outside, only barely above the surface of the sand, and he shivered when he saw a blood splatter. Everything was so still and silent. There were no footprints. There were no bodies. The sun was shining fiercely on his face, the sky was so very blue, and the wind even down there was hot and dusty. He thought then, maybe he was dead. But he reckoned he had to be alive, or his foot would not hurt so much.<p>

"Neal!" he yelled as loud as he could, but his voice was swept away by the wind so it was hardly louder than a whisper. He tried to climb up in the sand, but it was like treading water, he took one step and sunk down two. He began to pant with exertion, and his shirt stuck to his skin, white with salt. He wanted to take off his jacket, but he wasn't wearing long sleeves, and the sun was so strong it could leave blisters if he left his skin exposed for too long. He walked on, and was about to try climbing on all fours when a distinct cry of pain alarmed him. It was coming from the other side of the dune that the plane obscured from sight.

His heart drummed. He rounded the caved-in cockpit, terror and anguish pumping in his veins, but when he located the source of the sound he stopped short.

A man lay on his back in the hard sand, that all around him was dark and saturated with blood. He was gasping for breath, while another man held his head and pressed his other hand in what Peter guessed was the source of the bleeding. Letting out a guilty breath of relief, Peter saw at once that neither of them were Neal. The man lying down was Charlie, the one holding him was Simon. Peter clenched his fists. That was a lot of blood seeping into the sand, my God, so much blood, the plane crashed, the plane crashed in the middle of the desert… This can't be real. He thought of Elizabeth, and he wanted to get down on his knees, punch at something, burst out crying.

But he didn't.

"Help! Help me!" Simon called, and Peter blinked and broke out of his daze. He rushed towards them, and saw that Simon's hand was pressed right into Charlie's chest, where he'd been hit by shrapnel.

"If I pull back, he'll bleed out," he said gasping. "But I've been holding it... too long. The sun is in my eyes, I can't..."

"I'll do it." Peter kneeled down next to him, and his knees burned from the sand below him, but he wasn't thinking about himself then.

"Thank you."

Once Peter was pressing down Simon fell back, lying down and holding his hands to his chest. "God, it's... so hot, I..."

Peter kept his pressure, but now that he was closer he could see Charlie was very badly wounded. Unless they could get an airlift within fifteen minutes… It was bad. It was very bad. He looked up.

"I need you to look for my bag, it was in the plane. I need it."

Simon frowned.

"Need it for what?"

"To help him, for God's sake, I've got an aid kit there!"

"Oh, oh. I'll fetch it." He ran through the burning sand with a spring to his step that reminded Peter of Neal.

_Neal._

He looked down at the bleeding man.

"Did you see where the pilot went?" he asked. The man, though barely conscious now, had a quizzical expression. "The pilot of the plane? Benny?"

Charlie tried to speak and gasped, then spat blood. Then he tried to turn and Peter let him.

"Gone," he said.

"Gone? What do you mean gone? Gone where?"

"He—"

"Here, I've got it!" Simon was by their side again, holding Peter's duffel bag. Peter upturned it and rummaged one handed through the contents, until he found the bag he was looking for. He grabbed a wad of gauze and stuck it unceremoniously in the wound already contaminated with dust and sand.

"Oh my God," said Simon. "Charlie. Oh God. Is he— will he make it?"

"I don't know," Peter answered with his teeth gritted, though he really did know. And he reckoned Simon knew as well, only he didn't want to think about it, didn't want to say it out loud.

"He—" Charlie tried again. Peter felt a deep sadness, for he was just a kid really, dragged into this by bad company and the promise of fortune. "Window..."

"What?" said Simon. "What did he say?"

"I… I don't know."

"You don't know much, do you? Oh God, Charlie. Jesus Christ."

* * *

><p>It took Peter a while to realise Charlie had died, and when he did he stared up at Simon not knowing what to say. Simon knew without a need for words, and he pulled back in anger and then cowered in the shade of the plane's fuselage to curse and cry. Peter didn't move for a while. Then, with a sense of weariness and pain he had never felt before, he dug his hands in the hot sand, so it would stick to the blood that stained his skin and he wouldn't see the bright red in them anymore.<p>

Gone. Window. Where the hell are you, Neal? He had to be alive, he could not have disappeared, but he felt it was too soon to ask Simon anything. He stood and walked away from Charlie, and he tried to get his bearings, tried to remember which of the dunes that framed the narrow valley was the one they'd seen in the distance. He reckoned it had to be the one the plane was lying against, but he couldn't tell for sure. How did Neal get out of the cockpit? And, more importantly, why did he leave? He would've had to climb back, right past where Peter sat. Why would he leave?

"I'm going to have to tell his sister. Jesus…" Simon's voice broke through the sound of the hissing wind, and Peter turned.

"I'm sorry."

"What the hell for? You didn't crash the plane, did you? Goddamn pilot did. Got himself buried in the sand, the useless bastard."

"He's in the cockpit?" Peter's voice quivered as he asked the question, but Simon didn't seem to notice.

"Should be. Unless he made a dive for it, how should I know? I woke up and found Charlie lying by the cargo door like he'd crawled there, he was alone, oh, for God's sake…" he cast a glance at his partner in crime, and he looked away in shame before his glassy eyes became too obvious. "This is so messed up."

"How far from here is the nearest road?" Peter asked.

"Too far. Unless you can find four day's worth of water and a handheld GPS in that plane, we're done for."

"How about the phone? You had one before we crashed, was it a sat phone?"

Simon scoffed, and kept flicking sand off his clothes.

"What does it matter..." he said. "Dropped it, didn't I? Don't know where it is anymore."

Peter stood, and approached the plane.

"I'm going to look for it," he said. He needed to find a way to contact Diana, and he needed to go look for Neal. That phone had to be somewhere in the crash.

Peter searched for 20 minutes, before giving up. When he returned to the shade at the bottom of the dune, he was sweaty and exhausted, and his foot throbbed as though a grizzly bear was gnawing at it, but a dryness in his throat had brought to mind a more pressing concern. Water. He'd found four half-litre bottles in the fuselage, but it was hardly four day's worth, not in this heat, and not for the three of them.

"Who's Neal?"

Simon's voice startled Peter, and he turned back.

"What?"

"Neal. I heard you call out that name."

"When?"

"Don't play stupid, who the hell is Neal? What did you call his name for? He isn't here."

"No… I… I was dazed, forgot where I was for a moment…"

Simon stared at him for a second, then he looked away, nodding, as if he understood. Then he turned to Peter again.

"But who is he, though? Pretty strange, you calling out a man's name in your moment of peril…"

Peter thought fast. "Neal's my brother," he said. Simon nodded again, eyes downcast.

"Older or younger?"

"Younger."

"Charlie was like a little brother to me. I've known him since he was a little boy, I always watched out for him…"

Peter thought about saying it was a damn fine way to take care of a little brother, dragging him into the looting and smuggling business, but he reckoned Simon would eventually arrive at the same conclusion, and there was no need to reinforce his guilt. Besides, if he thought too much about it, he had to admit that allowing Neal to fly a twin-engine aircraft had not exactly been in his best interest, but he didn't want to dwell on that,_ think of something else, Neal's fine, Neal's fine._

* * *

><p>They both sat in silence among the shrapnel and debris, watching the sun leave a burning trail in the sky until it was almost touching the crest of the dune, about to leave the whole valley in shadow. With every second the light was receding into a bluish shade, and it was right in that moment, when the light touched the tip in an oblique angle, just before the sun disappeared behind it, that Peter saw the pockets of shadow. They were spaced evenly across the sand, climbing in zig-zags from a higher point to the left, all the way to the orange crest and possibly the other side. The bright light had not allowed him to see them before, but now they were clear as day. Footprints.<p>

He stood, wobbling a little, but as momentum carried him forwards he steadied.

"Where are you going?" Simon asked. Peter pointed up.

"There are footprints up there. I'm going to check it out."

Simon nodded, and rested back. He seemed to be too tired or confused to care, and he didn't even look up at the dune. Peter grabbed one of the bottles, shoved it in his bag, and started walking.

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><p><strong>AN: This is a shorter one because I need what comes next as a single chapter. I'll be quicker to post next, as well as quicken up the pace of the story, so don't get impatient, the first word of chapter 4 is "Neal". Thank you very much for reading, and I'd love it if you left me a message below, with comments, suggestions, reviews, or whatever you like. I'll read them and bear them all in mind. Hearing from you is a large reason why I like writing this so much! **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey again! Thanks so much for reading. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. Never forget I am building up to something, take deep breaths and have patience, there's lots of excitement to come! I'll be travelling tomorrow but I still hope I'll be able to update within a week. **

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><p>A fierce afternoon sun was scorching the earth and the ground was burning when he woke up. Neal raised his head from the sand and spat out coarse dust from his mouth. He felt it clogging his nose and throat, and he coughed and gagged. Sand stuck to his eyes and he couldn't see, he felt it burning his bare arms and the back of his neck, and his head felt heavy with it. He was lying on his stomach, nothing but bright yellow sand all around him. He blinked several times, and rubbed his eyes, but still he saw the ground dissolving around around him from the heat, everything was a mirage. His skin felt scorched and dry. Had he been lying there for long? He had no way of knowing, but it felt like a long time.<p>

Slowly, he turned on his side, and then sat up. His head still felt unnaturally heavy and now when he raised a hand he brushed off a wad of wet sand that was plastered to the top, tangled in his hair. He wondered at the wetness, then he rubbed it between his fingers and it left them stained dark red. He shivered. Why didn't he feel pain? It was a little numb, and he felt dizzy when he moved, but there was no pain. Only heat. It burned his lungs just to breathe.

"Peter?"

He looked around, but he was alone. Tall dunes surrounded him, and a steady wind blew against his skin and he could hear it hissing persistently in his ears. It never stopped, or waned, and within a minute the sound was so ingrained in his mind he thought he'd gone deaf. He closed his eyes. The gold. The silver and the turquoise. The ceremonial death mask and the woven fabrics of the coffin. He remembered how the spoils of the looted tomb had looked like, all wrapped and stowed for transport in a wooden crate. He'd arranged for an archaeologist to come and do the restoration — and Peter had come in — but what next? The plan was to meet the Chief of the Operations, and follow him to the top of the band's hierarchical pyramid in New York. But how? How had he ended up here? He rested his hands on the sand and then lifted them, as the heat seared his skin. Breathing was increasingly hard, his arms were weak and his legs were cramping, he felt pinpricks on his skin at every small movement. Black spots flashed in front of his eyes. Hot. It's so hot.

He had to take several quick breaths in order to feel capable of standing, and even after he managed it, he didn't think he could walk more than a few steps. There was nothing but sand around him, red crunchy sand and stone, and it waved and quivered and he couldn't make out the lay of the land more than ten feet in front of him. He could see the crest, and he imagined there must be a deep chasm behind it, as the sand got blown over and rolled down the leeward face of a dune. But he headed the other way. Up. He had to go up, and from there he'd be able to see where he was, from there he'd be able to tell what had happened, and maybe he'd remember, maybe he'd know.

He reached the top. He was still alone. Fear began to grow in his mind, and he remembered the selfish thoughts he'd had when he was looking down at the remains of the tomb. I could take it all and run. I could restore it myself and take it far before Peter even notices I'm gone. Those thoughts he remembered clearly, and after all alternatives rushed through his mind, he concluded he must've given in to those temptations. He must've ran. And now he really was alone.

* * *

><p>It took Peter almost an hour to make it to the top, right around the spot where the plane had impacted the dune. The orange crest, a little further to the side, was covered in tiny reddish pebbles that hurt his hands as he climbed on all fours. He'd previously considered himself to be quite fit, but it was unbelievable how much that climb had cost him. At the crest, he collapsed and laid sprawled there until his heart had slowed down to a moderate speed, and the throbbing in his foot became bearable. He felt a sudden urge to drink the water in his bag, but he suppressed it. He knew that he would need it more later.<p>

He sat up and with some hesitation, looked down at the other side of the dune, which the sun still touched although only in a side glance. His heart made a leap in his chest when he spotted the long, dark shadow of a figure sitting halfway down. A column of billowing grey smoke was rising from the figure, and Peter felt his worry and anxiousness getting rapidly overtaken by anger. He stood, swallowed back the pain in his foot, and ran down.

"Neal!" he called, when he was but a few feet away. He saw Neal stand like a spring and the cigar in his hand dropped to the sand when he turned. His face paled.

"Peter…"

"What the hell Neal! You've got three seconds to explain yourself and it better be good."

"I… Peter… I-I thought I was alone, how…? How did you find me?" He took a step forwards but Peter stepped back.

"Did you bother checking the plane for me? Where were you going, Neal? Back for the crates? Back to look for the treasure? You had maybe hours left to live going in that direction and that's how you were going to spend them?"

"What? No, Peter, look, I didn't know… I thought…"

"You were sitting here, while I was back at the crash site thinking you were squashed under the plane."

Neal clenched his jaw and breathed in deep, but he was quiet. Peter saw his eyes darting away, like he did when he was hiding an emotion, and he wondered if it was guilt, or something else. Neal's eyes came to rest at the now extinguished cigar, and a sad smile formed on his lips.

"The cigar is Simon's. Charlie gave it to me when I saw him packing the case, said Simon wouldn't notice. I thought I'd smoke it now while I can still enjoy it."

Peter wrinkled his eyes, and shook his head.

"Are you joking? Do you think this is a joke? What is the matter with you? Charlie is dead. He bled to death while you were here smoking."

"Charlie… Charlie was with you? I…. I thought… Just wait a second..."

"Neal, you were sitting right in front of me. You had to walk right past me to—"

"What are you even talking about, I… I never even saw you, I..."

"How could you not have seen me, I was still strapped to my seat, and Charlie, Charlie was sprawled out in the sand!"

"Wait, just… Stop. Just stop." Neal breathed in a gasping breath, raised both his hands to his face, and he pulled back his hair, though it remained standing on end - Peter couldn't remember ever seeing it looking so messy. It seemed darker, and… wet. Peter felt a chill running through his back. Something was wrong.

"How… How did Charlie die?" Neal asked, his voice low and dry.

"The crash, Neal. He was hit by shrapnel."

"He was a nice kid."

"Yes. He was."

"I was flying the plane, wasn't I?"

"You were. Neal, what did you think…? What's the last thing you remember?"

"Charlie was taking us to meet Simon… Do you have any water?"

"I have some… Neal, I think you should sit down."

"The sand is hot."

"I know. But I don't want you to spill." Neal sat, his legs spread out in front. Peter took his place beside him and handed him the water bottle. "Take it easy with it, okay? We need to ration it."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Neal, have you taken a look around you? Have you seen where we are?"

* * *

><p>Neal heard Peter's words and he felt as if the weight of the world had fallen on his shoulders, and only then did the numbness in his head began to clear, and the pain began. He saw again the crest of the dune from the cockpit, and felt the tug of his belt as they hit the stone below the sand, he touched the tender spot in his shoulder where the belt - an ancient thing - had snapped. He ran his hands over the sand-covered cuts and scratches in his arms, and he remembered his last few seconds of consciousness, in which he'd been flung headfirst towards the windshield.<p>

He'd crashed the plane in the middle of the desert.

He'd crashed the plane in the middle of the desert, with Peter, Simon and Charlie inside it._ And Charlie was dead._

"Neal?"

Peter's voice reached him through the haze and he turned around. He noticed a lag in his vision, his eyes moved faster than the images perceived by his brain.

"Neal, are you all right?"

"Just fine. Thirsty. Do you have water?"

Peter frowned.

"You're holding the bottle in your hand."

"Oh. Right, yes." He lifted the bottle to his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Peter staring intently at his hands that struggled to remain steady enough to avoid a spill. He only barely succeeded, before Peter took the bottle back.

"I'll give you more on the way down to the fuselage."

"I went right through the window in the cockpit. I remember that."

"Look, Neal, we should to get down to the fuselage. There're some things from the plane we can use to make a shelter, and it will be dark soon..."

"How much time has passed? How many hours? The plane lost fuel. They shot at us from the runway and blew the tank for Engine 1. You said the runway would be clear and it wasn't."

Peter sighed.

"Look, I don't know what happened, Diana told me it was all set up, that we would have no interference..."

"No, stop. I don't want to hear it anymore."

"You just brought it up, I was only-"

"Stop. Please."

Neal turned his head away, ignoring the confused stare Peter was giving him, and he pressed his fingers to his forehead but pain was coming in unbearable waves. He gritted his teeth. Reality sunk in with the pain, and he let himself wallow in the misery of it for a while. Minutes passed and they heard no sound other than the hissing of the wind. The line of the sun on the dune crept up, until they were sitting in the shadows. It was suddenly cold. Neal shivered, but the shiver felt good. Then he lifted his head, slowly got back on his feet, and climbed to the crest of the orange dune once more.

"Dune of Beyond," he said.

"What?" Peter followed him up. He was limping, Neal noticed, and it took him a while to get to the top.

"Dune of Beyond. I've seen it before. It's one of the tallest coastal dunes in the world, yellow base, orange cap... Rises right up from the sea." Neal's voice began to gather speed, almost as if of its own accord. "That means the ocean is close, don't know the distance but it's close, maybe before the sun went down we would've seen the ocean from here, I don't know if you were looking at the beaches but I was, and there were plenty of camping tents, and this entire desert is criss-crossed with truck tracks. We need to walk west, and we'll get to the sea. from there, we walk north, and we'll find someone eventually." He took a big breath. "Come on." He began to walk down, but Peter remained standing still.

"Neal, Simon's at the crash site. All the water is there too. Are…? Are you sure you're all right?"

Neal waved him off.

"Who's Simon?"

"What do you mean, who's- He's your boss. The one who still thinks you're an Australian bush pilot, remember him? The one whose cigar you were smoking?"

Briefly, and with much guilt, Neal thought he would've preferred Simon to die instead of Charlie.

"How much water do we have?"

Peter shook his head slowly.

"Not enough."

"And I imagine you would not be inclined to leave Simon behind."

"It disappoints me that you even consider that an option."

"I also imagined you might say that..."

"Well, you have a vivid imagination, don't you?"

"Peter... How do you know he won't get rid of us and take the water the first chance he gets?"

"Because if he does that, he'd be alone."

"You sound as if you know him."

"I just saw him grieve over Charlie. He's no different than you were eight years ago. A criminal, but not a bad person."

"No different than me?" Neal scoffed. "Well, I don't remember ever putting a gun to someone's head and telling them I'd blow them to hell."

"This is not under discussion, Neal. We're not leaving him behind."

"Even if it means we all die? Think of Elizabeth, Peter. It's either the two of us, or none of us."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"It's obvious there won't be enough water for the three of us."

"And if there's only enough for one? Who's going to save himself then? Imagine I tell you that I'm the one who saves himself because I have a wife, because I've never committed a crime, and because I wasn't the one to make a reckless move that resulted in us crash-landing here? What then, Neal? Does that sound fair to you?"

Neal looked down.

"I did what I could, I didn't anticipate being shot at," he said, with a bitter scowl.

He heard Peter sighing.

"I'm sorry," he said. "What I'm trying to say is, we can't take it upon ourselves to decide who saves himself and who doesn't."

Neal turned. "We all die then. That's your perfect solution?"

"No, Neal, we're not-"

"Look where we are! The runway was supposed to be clear, you were supposed to make sure of that! The moment they shot the tank there was nothing I could do to avoid this. Now you want to blow our only hope at getting out saving a man who was probably planning on killing me the moment we landed in-"

"Neal, stop. Stop this," said Peter. He grabbed Neal's shoulder. "We're not going to die. None of us, you hear me? Diana and Jones will find us. They have our flight plan, they have a tracker on the plane, and they have your anklet. Remember that? They know exactly where we are and they'll come. There's no need to draw straws here."

Neal breathed in deep and looked down. Turning back, he lifted the leg of his pant and saw the light blinking in his anklet. He let out his breath in short bursts.

"I'd forgotten about... Forgot I had it on." He stood again, and wiped the sand stuck to the dry corners of his eyes. He looked around for a moment. Stared at the orange-crowned Dune of Beyond. And he swallowed. "I'm sorry, I... Just feel strange."

"It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Do you think I could…? Could I have a little more water? Just a sip."

Peter took the water bottle out of his bag again, and handed it back to Neal. "Just a sip."

Neal took it, and he held the water in his mouth for as long as he could, savouring the relief it brought to his dry lips and throat. But when he swallowed, it didn't even feel close to enough to quench his thirst.

"We'll have more later," Peter told him. As the bottle was taken from his hand, Neal's fingers squeezed the plastic and he held on for a silent second, before he let go.

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading! And thank you all, wonderful reviewers, I hope you will grace me with your comments in this chapter as well. I'll be waiting for those lovely emails as I board my plane (which will be briefly flying over this desert). I live for your reviews, and I'll do my best not to keep you waiting more than 5 days til the next update, which will pick up the pace a little. Do let me know what you think of this story so far! **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey again! Sorry I've been absent but I'm currently travelling (seeing the lovely NYC for the first time). I hope you'll like this chapter and if you do so, let me know! To all of you reading and following, I'd like to thank you, each and every one of you are in my mind as I write. Just to warn you, there will be some swearing in this chapter, and the scenes from here on get shorter. Enjoy!**

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><p>Peter watched with weary eyes as Neal walked in front of him on their way down to the fuselage. He'd attributed to his own exhaustion the fact that it had taken him more than a moment to know something was wrong, but now he saw it clearly. He noticed the lack of balance and coordination in his movements, the hesitation sometimes present in his voice, and the patches of red visible in the skin of his forearms and the back of his neck. The sun was down now, and the air was cool and comfortable, but Peter could see that the heat had taken its toll, and he could not allow himself to hope for a night rescue. He needed to think ahead.<p>

"Stop, let me go in front. I don't want to spook Simon," he said, and passed Neal as they reached the bottom of the dune. Peter saw Simon still lying against the fuselage, he didn't appear to have moved an inch since Peter had left. He had his eyes closed, and didn't notice him approaching until he was mere feet away from the plane.

"It's starting to get chilly out here," he said. Simon shivered, and pushed himself against the metal he leaned against, shocked and confused for a second. Then his eyes adjusted to the reduced light, and he stood right up.

"John! I was starting to think you'd never make it back!" he said. Peter smiled.

"Well, I'm back." Peter turned towards Neal and Simon followed his gaze. His expression turned bitter in an instant.

"Where you'd find the pilot?" he asked, not bothering to direct his question at Neal.

"The other side of the dune. He was ejected out the windshield."

Simon scoffed. "Well, you can tell that incompetent idiot to stay the hell away from my plane."

"Simon, he-"

"-is the reason we're in this goddamn mess. Remember what he said? _I'll pump the fuel from one engine to another, we don't need to head East!_"

"You didn't want me to head East," Neal butted in.

"Was I talking to you? I don't think so."

"You know what, if you-"

"Stop." Peter got between them, and stepped on Neal's foot to remind him to keep up his fake accent."This will get us nowhere. We should be making a fire, make ourselves visible."

"A fire? And what on earth are we going to burn?" said Simon.

"There's got to be flammable parts of the plane. Some crating, maybe…"

"We dropped the crating," said Neal. He sat down on the sand and his voice sounded hoarse.

"Well, let's check. There might be something left."

* * *

><p>Simon led the way back into the plane through the tear in the metal on its side, and Peter followed. Taking one step in he stopped and turned back for a moment, to see if Neal was behind him. He saw him still sitting in the sand a few feet away, his knees bent and his head resting against them. Peter thought of calling out to him, ask him to join them, but he could tell he was tired, and it would probably be best to leave him be. He ducked his head, and stepped into the darkness inside the wreck.<p>

* * *

><p>Neal saw Peter disappear through the ripping hole in the fuselage and he let his head hung loose between his legs - he made no attempt to move. The pain was starting to irradiate from the back of his neck to the top of his head, and when he touched his hair fresh blood stuck to his fingers. He took in a deep breath, and he tried to fight it, but it only grew. The pain. The tingling in his throat, the weakness in his arms and the hollow in his chest, it was becoming unbearable. He needed to drink, he needed water. Where is the water? No. Peter had said they needed to ration it, they needed to make it last and he'd already had a drink so he had to wait... But he couldn't. He couldn't.<p>

He stood up and fell on his knees, then he managed to stand again and hobble forwards. The moon was up and it wasn't dark enough to keep him from spotting the bag lying near the crook of the wing and the body of the plane. There were three bottles. He took one, crawled away, and opened it. He took a small, hesitant sip, but his hands were shaking so badly he dropped precious drops into the sand. He kept the water in his mouth for as long as he could, then he swallowed, and almost immediately began to cough. His throat burned. Water spurted out of is mouth.

_Can't spill... can't spill..._ But he couldn't think, his head was throbbing, and he could only manage quick shallow breaths that gave him no satisfaction of his need for air. The bottle fell from his hand and water flowed freely into the sand.

"No... No!" He realised what he'd done and he tried to fix it, he straightened the almost empty bottle and shoved his face into the sand, sucking the fast-fading wetness of it - and then coughing up the coarse sand he swallowed in the process. His heart was beating so quick he heard drumming against his ears and it made him ache. He tried scooping up the sand, pressing it tightly between his hands so as to strain the water out, but it didn't work. It was all long gone, sucked in by the dust. He imagined you could pour an olympic swimming pool of water into that desert and within seconds it would be all gone.

He felt like crying. Peter was going to come out any moment, now, and… _What have I done? What have I done?_ He had not been able to help it. He needed to drink. He still needed to drink, but he felt his head so heavy, every thought was slow, his movements were delayed. He remembered the two other bottles and he crawled back to the bag. He grabbed a second one, and he managed to stand. He walked away from the plane, down, towards the deepest end of the valley where the sand was solid and his feet did not sink. He reached a spot hidden from view, and he raised the bottle to his mouth but his cramping fingers dropped it again. He'd thought it was closed, but for some reason it began to drip. He fell to his knees and the jolt he felt was unexpected, like landing on concrete. The dark-blue landscape around him became pitch black, and he collapsed the rest of the way. Under his hands, the sand became soaked. He hoped then that no one would ever find him.

* * *

><p>"There's some wood here in the hold, they'll make a good fire," said Simon, pulling out two thick wooden planks, like those used for scaffolding. Peter stood beside him, staring at the narrow hole beneath the seats that Simon had opened up.<p>

"What's that doing there?"

"We use them to put them under the wheels of cars, keeps them from moving around."

"You've flown cars in this plane?"

"Oh, we've flown much more than cars… In fact, Charlie once-" Simon stopped, and gulped. He turned his eyes away and carried the wood to the opening. "Yeah, it'll make a good fire."

Peter followed Simon out without another word, carrying the other end of the wooden planks. He jumped down from the plane into the soft sand, and he was surprised by the darkness of the night. He could've sworn it wasn't as dark when he entered the plane - now he could barely tell where the dunes ended and where the sky started.

Simon went back into the fuselage, and brought out a pile of magazines, maps and assorted papers, which he crumpled and laid in the crook between the body of the plane and one of the broken wings.

"We should light it here," he said, "so we're covered from the wind. Do you have a lighter?"

"No. But I think N-Benny had one."

"Yeah, where is that idiot, Benny? He didn't come in and help."

Peter looked around, suddenly alarmed, and he had to turn his back to Simon to keep him from noticing. He scanned the sand that surrounded them, all blue-black and inscrutable, and he struggled to keep his breath even. _Dammit, Neal, why do you keep doing this to me?_

"He was sitting right here when we went in…" Peter took a few steps back and stumbled with the bag that held the water. He peered inside. There was just as single bottle. Panic ran through his veins and he forgot the cold and the pain in his foot.

"What's that you got there?" Simon asked.

"Oh, it's just-my bag, I left it here…"

"Is that where you left the water? We need to be careful about it, here, I'll put it away…"

"No it's all right, I-" But Simon was already pulling the bag from his hands. He felt the difference in weight immediately.

"What's this?" he said. His voice rose. "Where're the other bottles? There's-" he looked inside, "there's just one here!"

"I haven't touched them, I three of them there when I came back, I've got the fourth one."

"Well, then, who-" He stopped. A furious hiss came out from his mouth. "I'm going to kill him."

"No, wait-"

"I'm going to kill him! That son of a bitch! He's the reason we're here, _he's the reason Charlie's dead._ Oh, I swear to God, when I… He can't have gone far. You go round the plane to the left, check for footprints, I'll go to the right."

"Simon, please-"

"He's got all the water, John! And he's getting away! Get a move on!"

Simon took off at a run, and Peter immediately did the same in the opposite direction, leaning forwards to try and distinguish shapes in the sand. He needed to find Neal first.

"Neal!" he called in hissing whispers. "Neal, where the hell are you!"

There was no answer. Peter quickened his pace, stepping hard on his injured foot despite the pain. His shoes were heavy with sand and they flopped awkwardly, but he kept going, almost in a frenzy, and cursing softly with every step.

"Ah-ha!" Simon called from the other side of the plane, and Peter thought he'd have a heart attack. "There he is, the bastard."

"You found him?" he called. He had to be loud in order to keep his voice level. Simon's voice, on the other hand, was calm. It almost sounded amused.

"Looks like he hopped the twig, though."

"What?" Peter sprinted back the other way, alternating holding his breath to taking big gulps of air. He felt a paralysing anxiety, a dread that seemed to make his blood boil. He saw Simon's silhouette standing ahead, but not Neal. "Where is he? What do you mean?"

"And he didn't even drink it! The sand is wet…"

"Peter…" The voice sounded just as Peter reached Simon's side, and when he looked down he saw Neal lying on his back, an empty water bottle clutched in his hand. Sand was plastered to his hand and half of his face.

"Oh, so you are alive!" Simon knelt down, and he grabbed Neal's collar, he raised him from the ground and started to shake him. "Where is rest of the water, huh? You used it all up for washing, didn't you? How's it feel like to be all nice and clean?"

Peter saw Neal's eyes open weakly, and they focused on him for just a second before Simon shoved him hard against the ground, grunting with rage.

"Simon, stop," said Peter, reaching for his shoulder, but Simon pushed him back and shook Neal again.

"You GODDAMNED son of a bitch! You bastard! Charlie is dead and you've just condemned us all!"

"Simon!"

"No! Why are you defending him! Your wife will be a widow because of him! You will die of thirst here because of him!"

Peter gulped and reached for Simon, trying to pull him off Neal, who was feebly struggling to cover his face from a sudden onslaught of poorly aimed punches. Simon grabbed Neal's collar again, and this time the button broke and he slumped down on the sand on his back.

"Peter!" he gasped, his eyes wide, as the first button of his shirt disintegrated in Simon's hands, and microchip with a tiny camera lenses dropped into the sand. Simon let go of Neal. His face paled, he stared at the chip and his lower lip began to tremble.

"You...," he turned to Peter. "What is this? What the hell is this?"

Peter clenched his fists tight and considered denying everything, considered letting Neal take the fall. For some reason that's what he imagined Neal would've done, even if just to get them out of there.

"Look, I can explain this..."

"_Explain!_ You're going to explain things to _me_ now? After you've played me for a fool!"

Neal spat sand and crawled away from Simon, panting heavily, but Simon threw himself over him and pressed his knees against Neal's back. He reached for his vest pocket, and pulled out the gun that he'd threatened Neal a few hours before. He lifted his eyes, they were glassy with tears, but there was an insane quality about them that had not been there before. When he spoke he pushed Neal's head down, and kept pressing the gun against his skull, but he was looking straight at Peter.

"You're a fed. Your name's not John." He laughed a bitter laugh. "Bet you're not even an archaeologist, and your useless partner sure isn't a pilot."

"Simon, listen, this isn't what it looks like-"

"You set this up, _you set me up!_" Simon's voice rose, ragged, a mix of rage and grief. "This was just a game for you, just... just a sting. You didn't care what happened to us. That's how you work, you call in the name of the law and you don't give a fuck about the rest of us, about our lives, about what drove us to this... You think I wanted this? You think I wanted this to be my life? You think I wanted Charlie...- You bastards. I should kill you both right now."

"No, Simon. You... you don't have to do that."

Simon scoffed. "We're all dying here anyway, so what's the difference?"

"Peter..." Neal's voice pleaded again and Peter wished he would stop, he was only making things worse.

"Your name's Peter," said Simon, and looked down. "And his name... is Neal, isn't it? You two are partners. You always come in partners."

"He's not a fed," said Peter, on an impulse. "He's a pilot. We turned him, paid him double for the job."

"And you're usually so concerned about criminals you turn?"

"I'm FBI, I can't have people killed in my operations."

"That didn't help Charlie."

"I did what I could for Charlie, you know that."

"You didn't do enough."

Peter took a step towards Simon, and tried to reach for his gun, to pull it away. But Simon stepped back, he stumbled and stood again, then he covered his face with the hand that held his gun. When he put it down there were tears in his eyes.

"I want you both gone. Now. Leave the water and go."

"Simon, you know that if-"

"LEAVE! NOW! You put one foot over that dune and I'll kill you, don't you think I won't!"

Peter hesitated a second, looking down at Neal on the ground. Their eyes met. Then the pop of gunfire echoed miles across the desert and the sand between Peter and Neal rose like a ripple.

"I said now!"

"Okay, okay, take it easy..." Peter moved forwards with his hands raised, then he leaned next to Neal and tried to lift him to his feet. "Come on, help me here," he told him, and Neal grabbed on to Peter's arms and got himself up, but he stiffened when they tried taking a step.

"Can't… can't," he said, hissing, but Peter kept pushing, and slowly they started to move. Peter made a sweeping move and lifted his duffel bag from the ground, just as another gunshot echoed, and Neal flinched. The sand next to their feet rippled. Two more shots sounded, before they finally cleared the nearest dune and they were out of sight. It was only a few metres ahead, maybe a minute or two, but it felt like a lifetime.

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you enjoyed this! If you did, I'd love it if you'd brighten my inbox with a lovely review or comment or anything in the box below, doesn't matter if you're logged in or are a guest, I read all your comments and cherish each one. There's a lot more coming and I will try and update within the week. If I'm late, be sure to remind me! Happy Friday, people!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey again! Miss me? I certainly missed you! I've got another chapter for you folks. I hope you'll like it. Thank you for reading! **

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><p>Peter slumped down in the sand, letting Neal drop beside him. The moon had made a reappearance, and he was now staring at a large expanse of waving blue dunes, all belittled by the Dune of Beyond, which rose behind them. There was no trace of vegetation, no birds, no sign of life. He brought both his hands to his forehead, and let out a long slow breath. Then he turned to Neal.<p>

They were on a flat portion of a large dune, a step of sorts, and Neal was lying down on his back, eyes only half open. Peter opened his duffel bag and brought out a large plastic sheet they'd been planning on using to wrap up the more delicate archaeological parts. He laid it out on the sand, weighing it at the corners, and then he stood over Neal.

"Just roll over here," he said, pushing him towards the plastic. Neal obliged without a word. Once he was there, Peter searched Neal's pockets and found the lighter he'd used to smoke Simon's cigar. He had to cover it with both his hands to keep the icy wind from blowing out the flame, but it was all the light he needed. "Neal," he said, with a light shake on his shoulder. "I'm going to check your head, okay? Can you sit?"

Neal blinked and nodded, but Peter could tell it took an effort to make the move. Peter held him in that position, and brought the light to the back of Neal's head. There was sand stuck to it. He tried to clear it, but it was sticky. It stained his fingers with blood.

"Oh my God…" he whispered, and wished he had enough water with him to clean and see the source of bleeding, but he knew he couldn't waste what little remained in the bottle he'd taken. He grabbed Neal's arm and felt his skin cold and clammy.

"Bet I'm looking pretty pathetic here... aren't I?" Neal muttered. Peter shook his head.

"Why didn't you say anything? I didn't know it was this bad…"

Neal looked away. "Didn't hurt at first… That… that sorry excuse of a human being had me pinned down and I couldn't do a thing to stop it, I couldn't take his gun, couldn't throw him off..."

"Neal..."

Neal turned his eyes to Peter. "If we had just left Simon at the crash when I said... then we'd be by the sea already... but you had to do the righteous thing, didn't you? Now how did that work out for you Peter?"

Peter had to swallow hard and squeeze his fists to keep himself from joining in with his own recriminations.

"Neal, you've got a concussion. Please stop talking."

"I thought sleeping was the big no-no."

"Don't do that either."

"Come on Peter. What's the point? Personally I'd rather bleed into my brain than die of thirst."

"Stop it. Just... Don't go there. It's hardly been a day, Diana must've been travelling. Tomorrow they will be looking for us, I can promise you that. They will find us."

* * *

><p>Neal wrinkled his dark canvas jacket and laid it under his cheek, using it as a pillow. He saw Peter beside him removing his own jacket, but he began to tear it in strips, with the help of a pocket knife. It took him several minutes to have the job done, and then he leaned towards Neal. He didn't bother asking him to move or telling him what he was going to do. Neal just felt a tug and then he found the canvas wrapped tight around his forehead, looping to the back of his head, and leaving tufts of hair sticking out from the top and the front. Neal kept quiet, he let him work. He remained lying down over the plastic sheet, lifting the edges to cover himself from the wind, while Peter checked through the contents of his duffel bag. He began to feel guilty then. Guilty because he knew this wasn't Peter's fault, not really, but still a part of him refused to let go of the accusations he'd thrown against him. He felt guilty, and ashamed, because he had not been able to control himself, and even now he retained very little control, and that was something alien to him. He didn't know how to handle it.<p>

"We should try and move for the ocean while it's dark," he muttered. He raised himself on his elbows and tried to look stable. Peter stopped what he was doing to look up. "Come morning, the heat here will dry us out fast. If… If our wait for rescue will be a long one, then we won't last long the ocean, we can cool down."

Peter sighed, and shook his head.

"I hurt my foot in the crash. It's enough of an effort for me to walk by myself - I can't carry you."

"You won't have to," said Neal. "I'll walk. I can walk. Just give me a moment to rest, and I'll do it."

"I don't believe you."

"Well, suit yourself then."

Neal placed both his hands firmly in the ground, then he turned to put his weight on his knees, and he slowly but steadily rose up. He put on his jacket again, buttoning it up to his neck to keep the wind out, and he began to hobble away from Peter.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked. He watched with alarm as Neal staggered and then regained his balance.

"I'm going to the ocean. I don't want a dusty grave."

"Neal, it's not-how do you even know where the ocean is?"

Neal pointed up to the sky full of stars. Peter had not looked up before, and only now he saw how clear the night had become. He could not remember ever seeing so many starts.

"That's the Cross," said Neal, pointing to a low and irregular set of stars to their left. "It points south. Right now we're heading west. The sea lies in the west."

Peter nodded, and he stood as well. He'd only been lying down a short time, but it was enough to make his foot and lower leg stiffen, and now that he pressed his weight on it again it hurt much more. He limped behind Neal, the bag again on his shoulder and the plastic sheet trailing out of it.

"How about you wait for me, Marco Polo?"

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><p>Dawn found them still walking. They had long stopped harbouring thoughts of rescue or death, they hardly even thought at all, except to will themselves to keep putting one foot in front of the other. They were still surrounded by dunes but now they walked through hard grit and stone, and with the stars no longer visible they could only hope that they were still headed West. The air was ice cold, but the sun was rising yellow over the line of the horizon, and it was no longer dark. Neal had been concentrated on moving forwards, on keeping his balance and swallowing back the nausea, and he almost missed it. But then a rock of quartz reflected the yellow sunrays into his eyes and he stopped. He stared up at the beautiful sunrise, at the clouds and dunes still blue but softly changing. Then he saw the tyre marks in the ground, just as Peter kept on walking straight into his back, and they both got knocked down.<p>

Neal was the first to untangle himself and crawl out, running his hands over the pebbles that had settled over the track. It wasn't recent, but he could still make out the grooves of the tyre in the ground, so it wasn't old either.

"Should we follow it?" He said. He had not spoken in a while and it surprised him how hoarse his voice sounded. Already his lips were cracked and his skin was so badly sunburnt it had swollen and become purplish. Every wrinkle in his clothes burned when it brushed against it.

"What?" Peter asked. He had sat up but his legs remained outstretched.

"The tyre tracks. Look," Neal pointed down.

"You said you saw several tracks from the plane. That they crisscrossed the desert, never lead anywhere."

"But this one might."

"Neal..."

"You've got a better idea? 'Cause I'd love to hear it."

"It's just that it might just lead us in circles! If we don't reach the ocean before it starts to get hot, then-"

"Okay, okay. We'll follow it, as long as it heads west. All right?"

"There are no stars anymore, how do you know where west is?"

Neal turned his back to the rising sun, and he pointed to the still darkened horizon in front of him.

"That's west."

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><p>Neal began to feel the heat in the back of his neck after almost an hour of walking over the tyre tracks. The wind was still cool and it didn't blow as hard as the day before, but it was only morning, probably not even seven yet. Slowly the ground around them would heat up, until the air above it trembled and silver lakes lured them in the distance. The ground was now both rock and sand, not as flat as before, and every now and then Neal had to wait for Peter to catch up in his odd limp, dragging his injured foot over the ground. It had swollen to almost twice its size, and Neal was worried Peter would not be able to walk all the way to the sea. What he'd do then? He couldn't carry him. He had managed to ignore the pain in his head and the growing dizziness, but he was only a misstep away from needing to be carried himself.<p>

"Do you see that?" said Peter in a rough, husky voice. He had to swallow before speaking again, pointing at a far off dark spot. Neal squinted his eyes, but saw nothing.

"No. There's nothing."

"Yes there is." Peter dropped his bag on the ground and began to ruffle through it, picking out a pair of pocket binoculars. His smile was so wide his lips cracked some more. "Green. There's a green patch over there. Bushes, I think there's a cactus… It's got to be an oasis!"

"An oasis?" Neal was skeptical. "That small? And so close to the sea? We were four hundred metres above the sea level at landing, there's got to be at least half a mile of sand under us before the next aquifer."

Peter stared at him, frowning. "No idea what you've just said, but see for yourself." He gave Neal the binoculars, while pointing at the dark patch. Neal took a moment to locate the spot, but when he did he nodded.

"Yeah, that's some vegetation for sure. Though I don't see water."

"Let's find out then."

They didn't run, but they hobbled faster. They were both smiling when they reached the spot of vegetation, but no pool of blue water awaited them. A large prickly-pear cactus grew surrounded by smaller dry shrubs, grasses, and a thorny acacia tree in bloom. There was no water but the ground under the cactus was moist, as if it had just been irrigated, and half covered by the greenery was a grey stone plaque. In front of the plaque, someone had left a red plastic container, like those used to store fuel, half-filled with water still retaining a faint taste of gasoline. Peter was quick to refill his bottle, and after drinking some he passed it on to Neal.

"Please take it easy with this one. Hold it with both hands or something."

"How very like you to mock me in my worst moments." Neal muttered before he drunk.

"Ah, come on," said Peter. "That wasn't your worst moment."

"I was half passed out and lying over the water I was trying to drink, if that isn't downright pathetic I don't know what is."

Neal drunk the water, carefully. He didn't mind the taste at all, and he didn't spill, but he had to let the bottle rest in the sand beside him right after drinking, afraid he couldn't hold the shaking in his hands for much longer. When he turned to look at Peter he found him serious again, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes set on the trembling line of the horizon.

"This gives us a couple of days," he said. "Three, if we stretch it. But I don't know how I'll be able to walk over one more dune, let alone 20 miles to the north."

"Didn't you say Diana was tracking us? That she'd follow my anklet signal and come for us?" said Neal. Peter shook his head.

"Something must've gone wrong. Maybe the local authorities withrew their support, I don't know…"

"If they see the plane, all they'll find is Simon."

"They have your anklet, they'll know we're not there. But I do think we should head for the sea, like you said. Now that we have some more water… But we should walk at night. Not in this sun."

* * *

><p>They both rested their backs and huddled under the refreshing shade of the acacia. Neal closed his eyes and began to fall asleep, but Peter kicked his foot and cast him a glance.<p>

"No sleeping for you," he said. But Peter's eyes were also closing, and after a few minutes he was too far gone to pay attention or say anything. Neal slept. He heard in his ears the loud hissing of the plane just before the crash, the alarms sounding and the roar and the screams. He felt the seatbelt tearing, his shoulder burning, his head hitting the glass—

"Neal!"

He opened his eyes, gasping. Peter was holding him by the shirt, as if about to shake him, and behind him Neal saw the sky turning pink.

"I said no sleeping," said Peter, and he released his shirt. Neal smiled a nervous smile, and slowly sat up. The throbbing in his head was diminished, but it was still there, and the lag in his vision had gotten worse.

"Is it so late already?" he muttered. He felt his stomach grumbling and he remembered he had not eaten in more than a day. Peter had gathered a mound of dry twigs, and he flicked Neal's lighter on. Neal reached for his pocket, where he'd last put the silver zippo Charlie had given him. "How did you—?"

"I took it after I dragged you away from Simon. You were pretty out of it, then, scared me for a moment there…"

"Aww, Peter, I'm touched."

Peter scoffed, but he was smiling. The scorching heat of the day had passed, and now the sand beyond the shade was starting to cool. The sky was a red-pink hue he'd never seen in New York.

"I suppose you can appreciate the beauty of a place like this…" Peter murmured. It was Neal's turn to scoff.

"It's lifeless. Empty. That's not the sort of beauty I'm inclined towards."

"You're inclined to the sort of beauty that gets you in trouble, that is…"

"You're at it again? It wasn't even me who suggested this case, it was—"

"I'm not talking about this case. I'm talking about you in general. I think that if you'd learned to appreciate a barren, lifeless landscape that can give you dunes so tall and perfect, that is so empty you can see for miles, that probably no one has looked upon the way you have, that can give you a sky like that… I think that if you had learned to see beauty in simple things earlier on, your life would've been different."

Neal looked away. He shivered, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Don't you think that's simplifying it a little too much?" he said in a soft voice. Peter shrugged.

"Beauty is in the simplest things, in the wonders of nature… It's free for all and only takes a minute."

"That's easy for you to say, Peter, but sunsets didn't pay for food when I was growing up, and they sure don't pay for food now. Art is different. Art is human expression."

"Human expression inspired in nature, nature you are staring at right now."

"Never saw any artist that found the desert inspiring."

"I'm not just talking about the desert, why do you keep hanging on specifics? And I'll have you know, Richard Dadd painted the desert, and no one would say his paintings aren't beautiful."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Peter. I'm impressed."

"You underestimate me. And you know what? There is enjoyment and fulfillment of that sort in all kinds of things."

"Is that right?"

"Yes. You know what does it for me?"

"What does it for you, Peter? Chasing after me?"

"Nope. When I'm driving… You know, when I'm taking a turn at some speed, I love the way the wheel slides under my fingers to realign itself."

Neal turned, gaping.

"You're serious?"

Peter nodded.

"You find fulfillment in your life by the sensation of making a fast turn?"

"No, see, it's not that the turn is fast, it's the wheel…—"

"Now, who's hanging on specifics?"

"Try to understand the bigger picture, Neal. There are small things in life that are worth enjoying. If you live waiting for the next big thing, you'll miss all that's in the middle."

"Hmm…" Neal got to his knees, and proceeded to stand. The fire was burning now. "I'll bear that in mind."

"Do so. And while you're at it, check the cactus for fruit and tender parts. We can cook it in the fire."

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you enjoyed this. I ended on a high note but be prepared to take a dive into darkness before it's over (who doesn't enjoy a little drama). I will update soon, now that I am back home and settled. I hope you're all doing well, and any comment or review, you can leave below! It's been too long since I'd last heart from you guys. **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N : Hey again! Here's another one for you. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! **

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><p>It was dark when they left the cactus. They carried with them scorched pieces of cactus pads and some not yet ripe fruit, and they stuffed Peter's bag with twigs to burn should they need to make a fire again. They both had their doubts about leaving, after all the cactus was a good shelter and it was source of food, but the water was still limited, and nightime was the best time to try and make for the sea.<p>

Neal carried the red container - as hard as it was for him to keep his balance, Peter was slow enough with his injured foot and the bag. Their pace was slow. They watched the moon slowly make its way up in the sky, and keeping the Southern Cross to their left they made their way over the crunchy grit, into the dunes again. The further they got, the steeper the dunes became, and soon there were no more truck marks or signs of human passing. When the moon was directly above their heads, Neal began to lag behind. He had to stop every few paces and rest the water container in the ground — he could not carry it for more than a few minutes without resting. Peter noticed, and tried to adjust his pace, but still every now and then he was forced to stop and double back. He wanted to ask him if he was alright, if maybe it would be best if they stopped and had a rest, but he knew it would be pointless. Neal would just keep on walking.

Peter was watching the line of the horizon turn yellow for a second time, as the sun prepared to rise behind him, when he heard a dull smack and a shuffling in the sand. He turned, and saw Neal on all fours, the water container upturned beside him, though — thank goodness — it was sealed. He limped back as fast as he could, and leaned down. He could hear the rasping breath despite the wind.

"Neal? What's wrong."

"Just… lost my footing."

Peter sighed. "Sure you did." He leaned down, and helped him up again. Neal was unsteady, but he managed to keep himself upright. Peter noticed with alarm that now the whole back of his collar and parts of the back of his shirt were splotched with blood, but he kept quiet. He could not afford to panic now. "Come on, the sun is rising. There's a depression here where we can set up the tarp above us during the day. You can have a little more water when we get there."

"Okay," said Neal, nodding, and followed Peter blindly.

They had taken off their shoes at the cactus, they walked now with the laces tied together and hanging from their necks, and they noticed the moment the sand underneath became thin, just a layer over solid rock. They began to slide down, just a little at first, and then ending up running down with long strides just to keep themselves upright - it was that steep. Neal was the first to stumble and roll down the rest of the way, but it did not take long for Peter to follow. When they finally stopped, they were in a deep depression surrounded by walls of sand. Their breaths echoed in the closed space.

"Are you all right?" Peter asked. He heard a cough. There the rising sun didn't touch them and it was still hard to see.

"I just literally bit the dust," Neal replied. He coughed again, and then leaned against the wall of sand. His hands went to his head and they stayed there. The makeshift bandage Peter had made had before was loose, and it was now slipping over his eyes. Peter wasn't sure what was the extent of the damage, if there was something else the matter or if it was just the head wound, but it made him anxious that there was nothing he could do about it.

Peter reached for the red container, which had slipped and fallen a few feet to their right. When he grabbed the handle he noticed it was wet, and gasped when he felt the sand was soaked underneath it. But he also kept quiet. The container still had water. They could still make it.

"Here, drink," he said, passing Neal the lid of the container filled with water. Neal drunk greedily and then looked up, hoping for more, but Peter pretended not to see the pleading in his face. He drunk his own lid-full, and then closed it tight. He took the tarp out of the bag and began to burry the edges in the wall of sand a few feet above the ground, stretching it to the other side so it would form a sort of roof over them. It was when he adjusted the last corner, that he looked down and to the left and he saw two beams of light coming from the deeper end of the depression, flashing for a second and then turning off.

"Whoa," he said.

"What is it?"

"Lights. I just saw lights, down there. They looked like headlights."

"I don't hear an engine."

"Nor do I… I'm going to have a look, you wait here."

He walked carefully - he didn't want to slip again. The rock formation they were in at the moment was decidedly the oddest thing he'd seen - it was like a sink hole in the middle of a flat extension of sand. He wondered if it would swallow him if he kept going down, and he began to step with hesitation, but then the ground leveled. A thicker layer of sand had gathered at the bottom and it was easier on his feet to step closer and closer. The blue light slowly crept into the crevace they were in, and the source of the flash became visible. Peter stopped in his tracks.

A car lay at the bottom of the sink-hole, upside down, the roof and windows crushed, the wheels facing the sky. It was a large black 4WD truck, a model of the year, and though dust coated its paintwork it looked like it had only just reached that position. Its skid marks in the sand above were still visible. Peter took a step closer, very slowly, and he leaned down to peer inside. He closed his eyes, shivered, and stepped back again.

"What was it?" Neal asked, when Peter got back. The sun was up by then by the tarp blocked the view of the car and he could not see it from there.

"Nothing… I must've gotten confused," said Peter. He crawled under the tarp, and lied down looking up. His lips were cracked, his face still itched and burned, and he had never in his life been so tired, but in that moment he could not think of his own misery. He could only think of the people in the black 4WD.

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><p>Neal turned on his side and closed his eyes. He wondered if Peter would wake him soon, and he kept waiting for the shove that made him bolt awake, but it never came. In fact, when he looked to his side Peter was turned away from him, probably asleep as well. He decided he might as well sleep too, at least while it wasn't so hot. He was exhausted, and it wasn't hard to drift away. He dreamt of a beach with deep blue waters, and then his dream morphed again into the plane, his hands clutching the levers so tight his knuckles turned white, the wind hissing and driving dust into his eyes, so strong he couldn't see, couldn't hear, could hardly even breathe… He opened his eyes, and breathed in dust. He heard plastic flapping, and when he lifted his head he saw the wind carrying down sand from the top of the mounds that surrounded them. When the sand got down to their level, Neal felt it like a blow, and the tarp would've been blown away in a second had he not been holding tight.<p>

"Peter!" he called. The gust blew his words away and he had to turn and shake Peter awake, just as another gust threatened to flatten him. Peter sat, and covered his face. Sand was coming at them from every direction, and they could hardly see a thing. "Sandstorm! We need shelter, help me stretch the tarp!"

Peter grabbed the edge of the plastic, and the wind blew it off his hands and into Neal's again. Peter shook his head. Shelter. The car.

"That will never hold!" He had to shout to hear his own voice. "Follow me!"

Neal grabbed on to Peter's shirt while he covered his face with his other arm. The bandage in his head got ripped right off, and he had to walk leaning forwards in order to be able to move. Peter carried the red water container, and he led them down, down, until the ground leveled. Forwards. Forwards. And then stop. They were suddenly shielded, and Neal turned to look at the source of his shield.

"Peter! This is a car!"

"Don't touch it. Just put your back to it, we'll use it to set up the tarp."

"But we can go in! We can cover ourselves inside!"

"No! Don't open the door, Neal. Don't open the door."

"Why not?"

Neal turned, and opened the door of the pilot's seat, sticking his head inside. A face hanging upside down almost touched his own face when he blinked, and he recoiled and pulled back so quick his head bumped hard against the door and then he fell on his back in the sand. He felt all blood leave his face and he was dizzy, he could not speak or make a sound. The sand storm blew against him hot and terrible, but he did not attempt to move, did not want to go near the car. If Peter had not reached out and pulled him in towards the shelter formed by the door of the boot and the tarp, he would've stayed there indefinitely.

"I told you not to open the door," Peter said, gritting his teeth. Neal said nothing, and he leaned against the open boot until his back rested against the luggage that filled it. The wind kept blowing, harder and harder, it blew whirlwinds of sand into their little shelter, it made the plastic flap and the metal hiss and the sand rubbed against their skins. Neal felt as if he was slowly being eroded away. He remained still, not really sitting and not really standing, but as the day wore on and it became hotter he found it harder to keep his head upright. The feeling of nausea brought on by heat that he'd felt when they landed returned, and he wanted desperately to drink but he could not reach the water. He was drying up, he could feel it, but he didn't want to move, didn't want to look up or even speak. All of that was a waste of energy and he didn't have energy to spare. Slowly he felt himself turning into dust...

* * *

><p>He must've fallen asleep - at least it felt that way. The next thing he knew, the sun was about to set, his head was being lifted from the sand, and the lid of the water container was being pressed to his lips.<p>

"Come on, Neal…" Peter was muttering. Neal opened his mouth but more water flowed in than he could swallow, and he gagged and almost spat out, before he realised he couldn't waste it. "That's it. Just swallow. That's it."

Neal managed to swallow the water, and then he sat abruptly and pulled away from Peter.

"What happened? The wind?"

"It's stopped. Take it easy, okay, don't move so much," Peter answered. "I didn't notice you had passed out until the storm ended, I couldn't see a thing."

"I didn't… I was just…"

"Don't kid yourself, Neal, I've had it with your "I'm fine"s. You're not helping me, you know? If you had told me about your head I could've stopped the bleeding before it was so bad. You must've been in the sun a long time while you were alone. It must be over 40ºC here, that causes heat stroke. You know what that is, Neal?"

"Yeah, I know what that is."

"And were you aware you fit in every symptom?"

"I… I was… I wasn't…"

"Truly, Neal, it keeps surprising me, how you can be a genius in some things and a complete idiot in others."

"Oh, what things am I a genius in?"

"No, don't do that. I'm not up for jokes." Peter turned back. He raised up the red contained, and the water inside sloshed faintly. There was only about half a litre left.

"I thought there was more," said Neal, serious again.

"There was. We drunk it."

"How much does it give us?"

Peter sighed.

"I don't know if we'll make it past two."

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><p><strong>AN: I'll be quicker this week to update, probably on Thursday though I might be persuaded to do it earlier... Don't get impatient! I know it's hard... You'll just have to trust me. I need a build up in order to raise the stakes high enough to get the emotion I'm looking for. If it gets too unbearable, though, you can let me know. I hope you liked this chapter and if you did or have any comments or thoughts, let me know below! I live for your reviews. **

**Also on another note, I'm just about finished with this story (in writing, not editing and posting) and as of yet I don't have any other story in the works. So I'm recurring to you incredible WC fans if you want to give me any sort of prompts or suggestions for something to get started on once I finish this. **

**Thank you so much for reading! **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So sorry for the delay! I've been trying to post this since last week and the Doc Manager kept bunching up all the text together and I didn't know how to make it right. Hope this time it comes out properly, and be prepared for the start of the more intense chapters. Thank you for reading!**

**A/N: Second version. Edited the 25th of March. **

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><p>Peter blew softly on a reddened twig until he saw a flame, and then he placed it carefully under a heap of thicker twigs and some paper from his notebook. Fire rose up, protected from the wind by the wrecked car and his own body, and he smiled. He remembered back home he struggled with getting the charcoal to burn when setting up the grill for a barbecue, even using those wax covered things that would keep on burning no matter what, he still always had to bring down El's hair dryer to get it right. How do you like this fire, El? The first thing he was going to do after getting home was to light up the grill and make some good rib-eye for them both.<p>

He heard a soft grunt, and he turned. Neal had come to lie down on his back beside the car, and he had his eyes closed tight and both hands touching his forehead in a gesture of pain. Peter dropped the little twig he held to adjust the wood in the fire, and all thought of steak and barbecues was erased from his mind. He was back down on earth in an instant, just by the sight of Neal, and he no longer felt proud of his fire, or of anything.

He reached for his bag, and pulled out a not-yet ripe prickly pear. He used a piece of broken headlight glass to peel off the spines, and then he held it out for Neal.

"Here," he said. Neal opened his eyes and grabbed the fruit with shaking hands. He took off a bite, and there was no comment on the taste.

"Is this the second night?" Neal asked, in a soft husky voice.

"It's the third, I think… I'm not sure." Peter brought out a scorched piece of a cactus pad for himself, and started eating.

"What do you think happened to Simon?"

"I don't know, Neal…"

Simon must still be by the plane, he had no where else to go and not enough water for four days - or was it three? - so he had to be there still. With Charlie.

He stared at his own hands and remembered they'd once been covered in his blood.

My God, Charlie…

"We should've buried him," he said.

"What?"

"Charlie. We should've buried Charlie."

Neal raised his head from the sand, and he appeared to only just be noticing the fire. He sat up, slowly, and got closer to warm up. He breathed in deep before he spoke.

"If we had buried him he would've become invisible. Now when they find the plane, they'll find him as well. He'll get a proper burial."

"How about... How about the people from the truck?" Peter asked, his eyes glancing back as if of their own accord. "It's a whole family, and it was recent. This hole is so deep it might be… It might be a long time before they find them."

"But they'll find them… eventually."

Peter shook his head, pulling himself a little further away from the car.

"I… We're sitting right beside them. We should bury them. It's disrespectful."

Neal rubbed his forehead with his hands again, and then he nodded.

"All right," he agreed. "Let's do it. Maybe they'll have food and water inside."

Peter stiffened.

"No, we're not going to loot."

"Peter... It's not looting, they're already dead. They have no use for it. And we need this."

Peter swallowed hard. He stood, and then helped Neal stand. He felt a hollow in his stomach and his blood was pumping furiously against the little veins in his head, but he managed to place himself in front of the door. It was Neal who opened it. And the same face that had stared at him when he first reached the car, on his own, it was staring at him now. He had a weird feeling in the back of his throat.

"Help me," Neal said. Peter raised his eyes to look at him. His face was darkened, the light of the fire didn't reach him, but he could see his arms and legs were shaking, that he could barely keep himself upright. But still he grabbed the seat belt and pulled it loose, and he began to drag the first passenger out. Peter grabbed him too and they dragged him into the sand a few feet away. Peter let go. Neal went back to the truck, to keep going, and he stretched his arms to reach inside. Peter stared. His own hands shook. The moment he felt cold skin under his fingers, and he saw another face staring at him, he let go.

This was going to be him, in a couple of days.

This was going to be Neal and him, under the sand for years and years.

Why?

"I can't do this," he said. He stepped back, and then sat next to the fire - the shaking of his hands and the pain in his foot was not longer something he could control. Neal raised his eyes to him, wide with shock.

"Peter…"

"I just can't. I can't."

Peter remained silent and still, and Neal went ahead and began to pry the rest of the doors wide open. He stopped when he'd managed it, and he closed his eyes for a moment and said a quick prayer in his mind. Then he looked down at Peter.

"Am I doing this alone?" He asked. Peter felt like an invisible hand had just gotten hold of his heart and was squeezing it till bursting point. He couldn't speak. He couldn't look up or the faces in the sand would keep staring at him, and he couldn't bear it. It was all so wrong.

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><p>There were four bodies in the car, and after getting them all out Neal felt like he was going to be sick. A new sense of nausea piled on to his previous dizziness, which had moved once more to the foreground, and when he looked down he couldn't help it. He dropped to his knees, his hands on the sand, and he retched bile until he had nothing left to throw up, though still the sight of the bodies made his chest tremble and his stomach heave. When he managed to stand again, and look up, he saw Peter had moved away from the car and was now starting another fire further away. He felt a flare of anger, but he held it back, and forced himself to finish the task he had set out to do. He wasn't even sure, as he piled sand over the bodies, why he was doing what he was doing. But he couldn't leave the job halfway done.<p>

It was a while before Neal left the burial ground behind and moved on to the car. He didn't know how he was still standing, or where he found the strength, but he never stopped. He squeezed inside, panting and wheezing, and he wiggled his way around the boot and the back seats, throwing out whatever he thought might prove useful. When he crawled back out, he had plenty of fire material sprawled out in the sand, a large tarp and camping chair by the boot, and a glorious bottle of red Gatorade clutched in his hands. With it, he hobbled over to Peter's fire, and sat down. He took a big gulp from the bottle, loudly, so he'd catch his friend's attention, and then when their eyes met Neal scoffed. He felt a strange sort of rage, the kind that makes you forget that actions have consequences.

"You're a coward," he said. Peter said nothing. Their eyes didn't meet. "Supposed you believed they were going to get out all on their own for us to lay sand over them."

"No, don't push it," Peter said, suddenly turning. "It takes..." He pointed to the mounds of sand. "It takes a very... very cold, twisted mind not to be disturbed by that."

"You're saying I'm cold and twisted?"

"Neal, you... You dragged those people out... Like they were just... Pieces of furniture."

"There was no other way to do it. And you said it yourself, we had to. Someone had to, and you couldn't."

Peter opened his mouth and stuttered, then closed it without uttering a word. He threw more twigs into the fire, then he looked up again.

"Was there any food?" He asked, softly. Neal shook his head.

"No."

"But you found that bottle. It's almost full."

"Yeah."

There was a small silence.

"Do you think I could have a sip?"

Neal looked away, the bottle held tight in his hands.

"No."

"Neal... The two bottles we had, you spilt. I gave you most of the water in the fuel tank because I thought you were having heat stroke-"

"I'm a cold, twisted person, Peter. I can't go around sharing my hard earned loot."

"Oh, come on, Neal! I wasn't talking about you. Clearly you were also disturbed and-"

"Really? What gave me away? The vomiting, maybe?"

Neal gulped down more Gatorade. Peter stiffened.

"Okay, I get it. I'm sorry. I freaked out, I couldn't deal with... I couldn't deal with that. There's a reason I work White Collar and not homicide. You must understand."

"I think that's beyond a cold and twisted person's scope of understanding."

"Stop! I said I didn't mean that, okay? I'm sorry. Are you seriously not gonna share? You know I need it, you know what it means if-"

"Would you share it?"

"What?"

"If you were in my position, if you had a chance to maybe make it out. Would you share it? With your criminal friend who screwed up?"

Peter shook his head, and raised a hand, palm spread open.

"Okay, I don't know where the hell this is coming from, but if you must know, yeah. I would share it with my criminal friend who screwed up. I would share it with anyone, and you know that! If I wanted to screw you over I would have stayed with Simon. I wouldn't have even gone looking for you or shared the water I got from the plane. Why don't you cut this victim crap already and assume some responsibility? You did screw up and I never once brought it up until now, I defended you when Simon accused you, and all I've done since is try to help you. So don't give me sorry excuses, if you don't want to share it's because you are selfish, and that's all on you."

Neal stared at Peter with his eyes wide. The Gatorade bottle shook in his hands, the liquid sloshed with a delicious watery sound, and it was almost painful to let it rest in the sand.

"Have your sip, then," he said, but his teeth were clenched tight. He wanted it all so much, so much. But he wasn't a selfish person. He'd never been possessive with anything, and he told himself he was stronger than the thirst. He wasn't going to let it win.

Then Peter grabbed the bottle with a thank you, and he brought it to his lips. He drunk with such delighted abandon, gasping with pleasure between breaths, that Neal began to worry. He saw the level of the red liquid falling, falling, and with each millilitre he felt his heart beating faster.

"Okay, let's save some..." He started, but Peter kept drinking. "Peter..."

"Just a little more..."

"Peter, stop."

Neal tried to reach forward and snatch the bottle back, but he wasn't as quick and Peter dodged him. He could tell there was no sense in reasoning with him anymore, he'd suffered from the same lack of control and he knew Peter had little awareness of the consequences of what he was doing. In his case, thirst had won.

"Peter, stop drinking," he said. He reached forwards and managed to grab Peter's hand. "Stop!"

Peter tried to turn, to instictively pull away from Neal's grasp. Neal held on. The bottle flew out of Peter's hand, spinned in the air, once, twice, and then landed tilted down in the sand.

"No, no, no, no!"

Neal threw himself on his knees, and picked up the bottle, but it was empty. He brought his face down to the shrinking puddle and he managed to taste the sweetness for a second, and then he began to swallow back sand. He coughed. He remembered his own lack of self control but that did not lessen the rush of rage and madness that he felt when he managed to stand back again and look at Peter. He gritted his teeth, breathing through his mouth, head thrown back. His voice, when he spoke, was bitter and hoarse. "You've just killed us both."

"Neal... Neal, I'm so sorry," Peter said. "I couldn't stop. I don't know what happened."

Neal scoffed.

"Guess I'm not the only screw-up, now, huh?"

Peter frowned.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? But I… I couldn't help it. It's not the same as screwing up."

"Then why is it that what I did does qualify as screwing up?"

"It was Peter's turn to scoff. "I'll tell you how it qualifies. When I said you screwed up, I'm wasn't talking about your breakdown at the wreck, I can understand that, I don't blame you for that. I was talking about the conscious decision you made to pump the fuel and keep our course. That was your screw-up."

"Oh so you're back to that! You just screwed us both and you're back to that!"

"Yes, I'm back to that, because like it or not, that decision, which conveniently you have no recollection of, is the reason we're in this mess, and you don't get to wash your hands off that."

"You say that, and you just washed your face in Gatorade."

"You were the pilot, for God's sake! I asked you before we took off if-"

"You asked me. Oh, so you just need to ask me. That's all the responsibility you assume."

Peter raised his eyebrows, struggling not to give in to his frustration. He was close to progressing into screams.

"Why is it so hard for you to admit to a mistake? You know you made one, so why can't you just say 'I'm sorry'? 'I messed up'?"

"Don't you think I know what I've done? I know it just fine, Peter!" Neal turned around, his arms flailing. His face burned and he reckoned it was blushed. His heart was racing. "I know I crashed that plane! I know I killed Charlie... Simon probably as well. I know I broke your foot, and sure! I know I've maybe killed us both! I know I've maybe made El a widow! I know that! If I die here, that's going to be the last thing in my mind, there is NO NEED for you to remind me."

"There you go again!" Peter began to shout back. Neal realised it was the same shrill tone that had echoed in that empty warehouse when El had been kidnapped. That only made him angrier. "There you go again, because everything always has to be about you! So what, now you want me to pity you because you feel guilty?"

"I never asked for your pity. I never even asked for your forgiveness!"

"Then what do you want? Seriously, I'm confused now, what is it that you want?"

"I want you to get off your god-damn high horse! You knew I'd never flown a twin engine. You knew there was a risk of shooting during take off, and did you tell me? No. You knew that pumping the fuel was risky, and even then you didn't object. I told you going back to Simon was trouble, and you didn't listen to me. This is a partnership! When things go wrong, you're responsible too, you can't throw it all on me!"

"That's where you're wrong." Peter's voice was suddenly very grave. "This isn't a partnership, I am the FBI Agent, you are the consultant, and when I said, loud and clear, that you should veer East, it was your damn job to do it!"

Neal stood still, breathing hard. He felt his arms shaking and he couldn't control it. He felt a hollow in his chest where his heart was still beating furiously, and rage and guilt and frustration boiled in his head. All he wanted was to say something hurtful, and yet he couldn't find the words.

"Well, then," he said, after a pause. "At least that's clear now."

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><p>Peter closed his eyes tight and opened them again. His mind was telling him to double back, to rewind the conversation to safer grounds, but he remained silent, Neal's bitter words echoing in his mind. It was too late now.<p>

He saw Neal turn, and pick up a pebble from the ground. Then he made his way back to the car, and leaned over the smooth metal of the driver's door. With the pebble, he began to scratch the metal.

"Here... lie the remains... of a family of four... found by Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey... on the 26th of June, 2014."

"Neal, what are you doing?" Peter's voice was still grave and low, and from where he stood he could only just make out the inscription in the light of the fire. Neal turned briefly, but didn't stop. When he spoke the words he was writing, his voice trembled.

"Close by... rest Peter and Neal... who crashed into a dune... because of a fuel tank leak... and apparently also because... the pilot... couldn't... do... what... he... was told. And so they are... still awaiting the... expedited... rescue from the... FBI. Nice job, Diana!"

Peter felt a chill run down his back.

"Scratch that off. Neal, why are you doing this? It's cruel."

But Neal acted as if he hadn't listened

"Peter Burke... promised... a speedy rescue. He... lied."

This time Peter stepped closer, grabbed Neal's shoulder.

"Stop."

"I'm leaving a record of our last days, what's the problem?"

"Neal, I am warning you..."

Neal turned to the last spot left untouched in the car. His hands were shaking badly but he managed one more sentence.

_"Peter Burke... leaves behind widow Elizabeth... because... he didn't... have the guts... to save himself and let the smuggler and the pilot die."_ He stopped then, dropped the stone, and looked back. Peter stood behind him pale and trembling, his fists clenched so tight it hurt.

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><p><strong>AN: Don't hate me! I did promise a happy ending, remember? So bear with me! Embrace the thirst-fueled emotion! Any comments or cries of frustration, there's a box below. Do review! I love it when you do! **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, but I hope this was worth it. Thank you all for reading, and special thanks to my mindful reviewers. I think of all of you in every word I write. **

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><p><em>"Peter Burke... leaves behind widow Elizabeth... because... he didn't... have the guts... to save himself and let the smuggler and the pilot die." He stopped then, dropped the stone, and looked back. Peter stood behind him pale and trembling, his fists clenched so tight it hurt.<em>

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><p>"So that's what this is all about," he said gravely, after a long silence. He moved his head up and down. "I get it."<p>

Another pause followed before Neal spoke.

"Do you care to enlighten me?" he asked.

"You thought about leaving me behind... didn't you? You thought about it... Before we dropped the cargo. And afterwards too. You thought of trying to make it on your own."

Neal didn't answer. He couldn't deny that the thought had crossed his mind, it was a basic survival mechanism, and he had crushed it anyway. His brain was just wired to think that way, but he had not given in, there had to be merit in that.

"I'm not a bad person. I was thinking of Elizabeth and I would've thought you were too. You know I have no one."

"I didn't leave Simon. What ever made you think I'd leave you?"

Neal frowned.

"Why are you doing this? Is this a contest? You're trying to make me feel like an even worse human being?"

"No, you're the one doing that all on your own."

"How? How am I doing that? You left me burrying those people alone, you didn't even give me the courtesy of an explantation! I did all that for a Gatorade bottle that you drank and then dropped! Who are you to judge?"

"I'm sorry, I lost it! Same way you did, I couldn't stop! We've both had our literal slip ups, now, can we just stop this? Can we stop this? Can we scratch off what you've written in that car and just work together? It's the only way we're going to make it out."

Neal breathed in deep. His hands were still shaking. He wanted to say yes, let's end it, let's move on, let's stop being ridiculous. But some part of him, some deep dark confine of his mind awakened by whatever was wrong with him that he couldn't know, it kept him from just calling it quits.

_Because what if the two of them couldn't really make it out?_

_What if there was only enough water for one?_

_What if he came to a point where he couldn't walk anymore? Peter couldn't carry him. And he couldn't carry Peter._

One of them had to make it out. One of them had to explain.

But Peter would never agree. And as afraid of he was, he knew he would never forgive himself if he survived.

"'I'm sorry' just doesn't cut it this time," he whispered. He closed his eyes, and opened them again, his decision made. He thought of the delicious red liquid he'd barely had a taste of, he thought of the harsh words that had hurt him more than he cared to admit, he thought of the terrible situation they were in and of the terrible thirst he suffered, and he willed himself to turn around, and walk away.

"Neal. Neal, what are you doing?"

_Yes, Neal, what are you doing? What are you doing? Why are you doing this? You don't want this._

_Shut up._

"Don't follow me."

But Peter was standing beside him, holding his arm.

"Neal, it's cold. Stop this. Let's go to the fire."

"No."

"Neal..."

"I'm leaving."

Neal brushed Peter's arm off, and walked off, slowly.

"What?" Peter asked. Neal kept going. "Come back, don't be ridiculous."

"This is the only smart thing I've done since we landed here," Neal said, looking back. He saw Peter flinch. Then he kept on walking.

"You're not taking any water," Peter called after him. "How do you expect to make it to the sea? Look I'm sorry about what I said, but can't we just talk about it for a second?"

"We've already talked plenty. You can't change my mind, I'm leaving. You're your own problem now."

"Neal..."

Neal took one more step and then another. He started having seconds thoughts. What on earth was he doing? What has he trying to prove? He was a good person. He knew that. He didn't have to do this, didn't have to, and he was afraid, he was afraid… He knew he was acting emotionally rather than rationally, but at that point he decided that he honestly didn't care. He needed to leave. He was already responsible for Charlie, maybe even for Simon, he couldn't be responsible for Peter.

Three steps ahead, he paused. He could see Peter's moon shadow beside him. He had a brief moment of doubt and of grief, an instant in which his mind let him know that this was the last time they would be seeing each other, that if he kept going, he would die alone. But he kept on walking.

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><p>Peter watched Neal go with growing despair. There was the fear of being left alone, something he struggled to admit even to himself, and then there was the guilt about the downward spiral he'd allowed their conversation to become after he downed the Gatorade. He should've stopped it.<p>

"Neal..." He called one last time, no longer knowing what to say. He couldn't understand what was going on, why this was happening. Neal paused, but then kept going, and Peter realised he meant what he was doing. He felt nothing but deep sorrow.

Then fifteen feet in front of him, Neal collapsed into the sand as heavily as if he'd been shot in the head. Peter rushed forwards with his breath held back, ignoring the burning pain in his foot, and in two seconds he was turning Neal around, his heart beating fast with dread and anguish.

"Neal... Neal..."

Neal had his eyes closed, his face plastered with sand. Peter checked for a pulse and found one - it was fast, erratic. Breathing was shallow.

"Oh, hell, Neal, come on. Wake up. Wake up."

He grabbed Neal's face between his hands - it was completely limp. He slapped his cheeks lightly, and then with more force.

"Neal! Wake up! For God's sake...!"

Nothing happened. He grabbed his own face, rubbing his eyes. Despair was beating fast through his veins. He shook Neal again, close to tears. He ran back to get the water and tried to get him to drink, but there was no reaction.

"Please! Please... Please..."

Peter grabbed Neal under his arms and dragged him to the fire. Using the light, he opened Neal's eyes and sighed with relief when he saw none of his pupils were blown. But worry crept up again. If it wasn't a concussion, what was it? Was it necessary for the pupils to be blown? Hell, he didn't remember. He wondered if it was fever, he touched Neal's skin and it was very dry, peeling at points, but it was unusually cold. He could hear the laboured breathing, could even feel it, growing slow, and he didn't know what to do. He needed to get help. He looked towards where Neal had said the ocean was, but he realised he would not be able to carry him there.

"Please wake up. Don't do this to me, please wake up..."

The silence that followed was crushing. He sat there, barely moving except to feed the fire, staring at Neal. He began to feel numb, like his face could no longer handle expression and his heart could no longer bare emotion. He looked up at the fading moon and knew what he had to do.

He used the tarp and the camping chairs Neal had collected to make a lean-to shelter over Neal, so that when the sun came he'd be in shadow. He took out a piece of paper he kept in his bag for kindling, and the pen he kept in his pocket.

_"I'm going to the sea for help. Please stay here! I will be back. I'm leaving you the water for the day."_

He folded the paper and stuffed it into Neal's front pocket. Then he stood over him, looked back at the blue-black dunes, and looked down again.

"I'm sorry, but I have to do this," he said. His voice shook. "You know the more we wait… I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." And he turned back, and walked away towards the west.

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><p>He saw the sun rise from the ocean when he climbed up the steepest dune yet, but his joy was clouded. In front of him a large expanse of small, wavy dunes stood between him and the shore, and they obscured the beach from view. He was close, less than two miles away. The sky was still black but the tip of the sun rising from the East was casting a greenish shadow over the dark blue Pacific, a bright line marked the beginning of day. To the west, he could see water, stretching forever down to the end of the world. He'd lived close to the sea for a long time, but still the view struck him. There was no foul-smelling river staining the deep blue colour of the ocean. There was no sky line, there were no islands, no boats. It was endless.<p>

He stared at the horizon and could think only of eternity.

With a deep breath, he went on.

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><p><strong>AN: Don't despair! Seriously! Trust me! This will come around. I promise on my word I will be quicker with Chapter 10, if I don't deliver within 6 days you are welcome to express your frustration in the comments. I'm having to sneak to an internet cafe in my lunchbreak to publish this since is blocked in my office. In the meantime, you can use the box below and make this terrible workday of mine a happy day indeed! **


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: It is Monday, and so, true to my word, under 6 days I deliver you Chapter 10. I hope you enjoy it - thank you so much for reading! Special thanks to you reviewers and (you know who you are) those who have helped me out. This is for you! **

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><p>Peter counted three hours since he had left Neal. It was not yet six in the morning, and exhaustion had set deep in his bones, thirst stung in his throat, and every sinking step he took sent waves of fire up his foot - he could almost imagine, when he allowed himself to hope, what the doctor would tell him: <em>It would've been fine, if you hadn't kept on walking on it for three more days (or was it four?). <em>Even so, he had not stopped - not once, since that first glimpse of the sea. At first he wasn't sure why, but then as he toiled on he suddenly knew. He was certain of it, as certain as you can only be when you're too tired to lie to yourself. It was guilt. Guilt, because he'd left Neal lying under a shaky lean-to shelter, unconscious and alone in the middle of an empty, empty landscape. He'd left him with the promise that he would go on to the sea, go on to find help, and only now he was seeing it clearly.Only now he knew that he had lied.

He came to one final summit, just as the morning sun - still hidden behind him - lit up the sky so that everything looked light blue. Looking down it was still too dark to see, there were no lights, but instantly herecognised the faint shimmer of the ocean, much closer than before, and he could see the slight difference in hue where it met the sky. He'd made it, and joy hit him with such an overpowering force that he tumbled down the dune, yearning for the cold breeze and the rolling roar and the sweet smell of drying seaweed. He ran, taking giant leaps and sinking to his knees with each step, stumbling and rolling till the twigs in his duffel bag spilt out and sand was stuck all over his dirty, sweating skin. He laughed, and there was a mad streak in his voice.

It took him fifteen minutes to get to the bottom, but he didn't stop, not even then, he just ran on down the crunchy broken shells, onto the wet sand, on to the water, and finally collapsing as a foamy wave crashed against his legs and splashed all over him, soothing his skin and numbing the pain in his foot. He fell to his knees, and then he dropped on his back when the next wave came. He let it carry him with the backlash, dragging him over the sand. He felt more relaxed than he'd been in ages, finally he could breathe easy, but then a wave landed right on top of him, and salt water rushed down his mouth and he swallowed. He shot straight up, choked and spat out, but the salt taste scourged his throat. Cold hit him then - _it was so cold_. He looked up at the dune he'd come down, and it seemed to stretch into the sky. He knew then that he would never be able to climb it up again. He would never see Neal again. He would never see El, or Jones, or Diana, or his parents, or his sisters and cousins and every single person he'd ever loved. All they'd know about what had happened was what they'd find at the crashed car - a bitter message written by a dead man.

* * *

><p>He dragged himself up to where the water couldn't reach him, and he rested on his back. At least here he could rest. He was shivering, shaking badly from the cold and the grief, but he didn't allow himself to cry. He looked up at the stars that still filled up the early morning sky, and he prayed. He prayed that Neal would never wake up to find himself alone and abandoned. He prayed that El never saw the message carved into that wrecked car. He didn't dare pray for rescue, he felt that was too much to ask for a man who hadn't stepped in a church for years, but he had one request he was willing to make.<p>

"Please God, let it be cloudy today."

He laid his head back on a pillow of heaped wet sand, pulled his duffel over his face so his skin wasn't exposed, and he closed his eyes. It didn't take long before a heavy sleep overtook him.

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><p>He woke up with a start when ice-cold water rose up his back and threatened to drag him down to the waves. He raised his head and sat leaning on his elbows. He felt cold, but it took him a moment to understand how wrong that was. Then he looked up, and realised he couldn't see the sun, only its faint shimmer behind a blanket of white and grey.<p>

He laughed, with his mouth wide open, and he felt in his tongue thin drops of rain. He reached for his bag and took out the remaining tarp, and still laughing he stretched it up in the sand and raised all the edges with sand to create a collection pool. Slowly but steadily the rain began to gather, and Peter watched it with fascination as he ate a remaining cactus pad. He felt new strength in him, and the prospect of climbing back the dune no longer seemed so daunting. He wanted to dance around his improvised water pool. He want to break into song. The weather was damp, the wind was cool, the wind...

It picked up, as if it had been summoned. When he turned he saw it rushing down the dunes behind the beach, it almost looked like a living thing coming closer and closer, a swarm of tiny yellow particles that hit him hard and almost knocked him off his feet. Two seconds later he remembered his pool of water, and he threw himself over the plastic, but already the sand was coating the water he'd managed to collect. He pulled the edges — he did it fast — and without a second thought he downed what water remained, hardly a cup. He shoved the guilt away, telling himself it was better he drunk than it was all lost, but still a bitterness remained, along with the sand that clogged his throat. Because he'd collected the water thinking of Neal.

_Neal._

He was lying under a tarpaulin held by a chair and a heap of sand.

And this wind…

_I never should've left him. I should've stayed._

He cursed in his mind, and then outloud.

_I need to go back. I need to go back._

He looked up at the dunes behind him. So tall…

_I can't._

He grabbed the tarp, and his bag. Looking around him, covering his eyes from the dust, he saw a large mound of rock to his right, where the beach ended in a series of rocky coves and inlets. He wrapped the plastic tarp over his head and started to run for the rocks. His vision was limited, but he did notice as he neared the rocks, that his feet crunched over more and more shells. Looking down, he saw they were all of the same kind - smooth, white clam shells. They were all large, open, and most were whole. Closer and closer to the rocks, they gathered in mounds several feet tall, and he knew it could not be a coincidence.

The wind came in sudden gusts for about an hour more, but then it withered and finally stopped. With increased visibility, Peter stared at the white shells he found himself surrounded by. He could see they gathered under every rocky mound, forming a sort of white ring around them. Peter guessed that whoever collected the clams crushed them against the rocks to open them, and then discarded the shells. There were thousands upon thousands of them, enough to suggest that clam gathering was a regular activity. There were people in this desert, after all.

He turned around. He thought then it was nothing short of a miracle that he was looking at the step of the dunes behind the beach, because right in that moment he caught a glimpse of a vehicle disappearing over the ridge, leaving behind a cloud of white dust.

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><p><p>

**Hope you liked it! Do review! I'll be happily waiting for you to read through this while I write and edit (don't want the published story to catch up to me!)**


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm back, and here's more for you. Neal POV, and a lot of inner monologue. I hope you enjoy it! We're now very close to the end. **

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><p>All of a sudden, he couldn't breathe. He had to rouse his conscious mind from the deep confines where it had hidden, he had to force his stiff hands to rise and come to his aid, and he had to open his eyes, open, open your eyes. He saw blue, but not the blue of the sky. He saw the bright, electric blue of the tarp that covered his face, his mouth, and he pushed it away, coughing and gasping. Swiftly it was whisked over the dune, a blue sheet flying away from view. His clothes flapped from the gust, he spotted a sheet of paper being blown away, and the half empty red container began to roll down. He reached for it, and only just managed to grab it before his strength failed him and he collapsed in the burning hot sand. Dust blew all around him making it hard to see, he looked for the car but couldn't find it, couldn't find anything in which to find shelter, so he just curled up and covered his face, to wait it all out.<p>

He almost didn't notice it when it was over. He could feel that his mind was trying to retreat back into its previous hiding place, and though he tried he could not fully coax it to complete awareness. He did notice there was no more humming, no more hissing and whistling in his ears, and he slowly brought his hands to his face to rub the dust off his eyes. After a while, he could see again, and he could see, with crushing sadness, that he was alone. Clouds billowed to the West. Sand still blew softly against his clothes. He half expected tumbleweed to roll by with the call of a Red-Tailed Hawk, but this was not that kind of desert.

"Peter?"

The wide expanse of sand seemed to swallow up his voice. He began to breathe faster, and the dizziness returned with a vengeance.

"Peter? Peter!"

He was alone. He tried, tried hard, to stifle his panic, but he couldn't do it. Why was he alone? Why? He remembered saying he was going to leave, and he remembered meaning it. Did he really do it? Did he really leave? Where was Peter? He wouldn't have been able to follow him because his foot was broken, he must've stayed behind, by the car, by the graves he dug on his own, all on his own…

_Stop._

He was letting it overwhelm him again and he couldn't let that happen. He was stronger than that. He needed a plan of action, he needed something to do. He rubbed his eyes again and tried to think. He still had the water container in his lap, and he tried to fill a lid full, but when his hands failed to provide him with the steadiness needed to pour the water without spilling he resorted to tilting it until he could slurp from the beak. There was so little left, and now he did notice the taste of gasoline. He remembered the sweetness of the Gatorade, but his flare of anger was short-lived. He would've rather not even tasted it, if that meant he was no longer alone.

_Stop it._

Why was he so tempted to continue in a spiral of self-pity and guilt? This was not who he was. He'd spent most of his life getting in and out of tough situations on his own, since when had he grown so dependant? He needed to be proactive. He needed to move, to move now, before the wind came back and he was again caught in the open with no shelter. He sat up straight, and stared in front of him. He could still stand, could still walk, he knew he could do it if he really tried, and if he had one more sip of the foul-tasting water.

And so he did.

Slowly.

_Painfully._

He walked back to where he guessed he'd come from, although the wind had wiped all footprints. He went forwards, without thinking.

He never once thought of looking behind him, where the wrecked car still stood.

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><p>Neal finished the water just as the sun was setting, and he dropped the red container. He'd caught up with the clouds that had left the shore in fog by then, and he didn't feel hot, but he was starting to think he'd never stop being thirsty. As he drunk the last drop he thought of Peter. He ought to have saved him some. How did he manage to take all the water for himself anyway? How did he abandon Peter by the car, just like that? He would've imagined Peter would've chased after him, tried to stop him somehow. Maybe he did try. But his foot was broken, after all, he couldn't have moved very fast… It was the only thing that made sense.<p>

He walked on, taking a single step, counting one, two, three, another step, one, two, three, another step, and so on until he had to stop and rest. At times, he wasn't sure if he was awake or not, or if his feet were carrying him forwards of their own accord. The moon was almost full and still visible behind the grey blanket of clouds, it still lit up the desert around him, but he could see no stars, and once it was completely dark, when all trace of the sunset faded, he no longer had any idea where he was going. He just walked. At one point he closed his eyes, and he would've walked on with his eyes closed, maybe for a long time, had he not come across a ridge of stone, where the flat ground ended and a steep descent began. He looked right up when he stepped into nothing, he felt an emptiness in his stomach, and he found himself rolling down a slope of coarse sand and pebbles, grunting, gasping, begging for it to end until his shoulders hit flat ground again with several loud cracks, and the rest of his body followed in a messy heap.

_I've broken something._

He raised his head, slowly. There was pain, but it wasn't new pain. He raised himself up on his elbows and he heard more cracks. He looked down at the ground. He saw white, and panic made his heart jump when he thought he might be lying over piles of bones, but when his hands tightened on the whiteness he recognised the shape of smooth clam shells.

He turned, and sat with his back against a dark rock that rose to his side. He could not manage to stand yet, now that he'd stopped moving all the pain was flowing back and he was starting to wonder if he would ever stand again. He could hear a whistling sound every time he drew a breath, and a deeper, louder humming that he'd thought came from the wind, but he could only feel a light, wet breeze against his face. He was starting to notice a distinct mixture of smells, sweetness and rot and drying salt, and then the humming became a crash and a roar that he immediately recognised as a wave.

_The sea! He'd reached the sea!_

But that was so wrong… He was supposed to be heading back to the car, heading back to where he'd left Peter… But now that he was here, he could not just turn around. He could find help here, and then go back for Peter.

He realised he'd lost his shoes in his fall - they'd been hanging by their laces from his neck - but he didn't look for them. He crawled towards the sound and it became stronger. He could now tell apart the waves coming in and the strong backlash, he even counted the swells to try and tell if this was the high tide. When he reached the end of the sea shell platform he'd landed in, there was nothing but a sheer ten foot drop between him and the wet sand. With the clouds now dissipating, he could see the shadow of tall rocks to his left, but to his right there were only a dozen scattered towers of stone before a long beach began, with white surf breaking as far as the eye could see. He was sitting atop a ridge, a wall of rock leading right into the start of the beach - all he had to do was jump.

Leaning down towards the drop, he breathed in deep, mentally preparing himself for the jolt and the pain that was sure to follow, but he was convinced now that he had no choice. It was in that beach where he'd seen the camps from the air, he knew it from the way it ended in rocky cliffs and he remembered spotting patches of white he hadn't known were shells from up above. He began to count down from three, then thought better of it and counted down from five, but the moment he said 'one', and he separated himself from the ridge, the sea rushed in over the sand he was supposed to land on, it crashed against the wall of rock behind him, and he was dragged with the backlash to where his feet no longer touched the ground.

The cold felt like a knife to his chest - even when he surfaced, it took him a moment to be able to draw a breath. Then he saw shapes, pillars of rocks rushing by him as he was pulled further and further into deeper waters. He frantically tried to swim back to the shore, he kicked and paddled and his arms cut through the water, but his adrenaline-fueled attempts could not keep him afloat for long. Soon he was too tired. The salt stung the back of his head and other scratches and cuts he had forgotten he had. Water rushed into his lungs when he tried to breathe, and it made him cough and sputter. A roar ahead alerted him that he was about to meet a wave, and he tried to dive under it, but he was too slow, and it turned him upside down so that for a moment he no longer knew where was up and where was down. He thought then, as he began to feel the desperate need for air, that maybe this was karma getting back at him for leaving Peter. If it was, then karma was incredibly unreasonable. He'd done bad things, yes. But he didn't deserve this.

He had a fleeting thought - that maybe he should just give up. It would be easier... so much easier. He even stopped struggling for a moment, he let his body go limp, numb... And then he remembered Peter, and Elizabeth. He remembered Mozzie, Jones, Diana. He remembered Ellen, and sure, she'd be watching, shouting wordlessly at him to be a stand up man and do what he had to do. He couldn't let her down. If Peter died, he couldn't let Elizabeth grow old without answers. He couldn't let Diana and Jones look at the cruel message he'd written on the car. He couldn't leave Mozzie to make his next escape alone. And he was Neal Caffrey. He wasn't going out like this.

He broke the surface again, gasped in a full breath, and he put his inner turmoil to rest, feeling confident again - it didn't matter if it was a fool's confidence. The current kept dragging him but his back touched a rock before it could suck him into open waters, and he turned and grabbed on to it. It was a large, rugged promontory rising several feet above the surface, covered with barnacles and sharp edges, but he held on with strength and willpower he didn't know he had. The backlash pulled at his feet and stretched his arms taut, he grunted and gritted his teeth, his fingers began to slip, but when another wave crashed the current abated. He used that moment to climb up. Thick clusters of leafy seaweed clung to his feet and he kicked them off, he reached higher, and managed to pull himself up to where no barnacles grew. He sat on a pointy ledge, with his back to the rock, his legs hanging, and there he allowed himself to rest.

A chilly ocean breeze blew against his wet clothes. At some point the right sleeve of his canvas jacket and shirt had been torn off at the shoulder, and he could feel the wet rock under his skin, the salt water dripping. Both his hands rested beside him like dead weight - he stared at them, his breath still whistling, and he saw black blood, but felt no pain. The cold water had numbed his body and he was still to regain feeling in his arms and legs, but of that, for the moment, he was glad. He knew he'd be paying the bill later. He'd been feeling half dead in the morning and he knew he'd feel that way again before the day was done, but for his current moment of respite, he was glad.

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><p><strong>Hope you liked it! I'm coffee-shop-updating again, but the evil page-blocker in my office still allows me to check my email and with it your wonderful reviews, so if you like, leave a comment below! <strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**Sorry for the delay, folks. I'll get on with it. Enjoy!**

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><p><em>Neal has woken up and reached the sea. Meanwhile...<em>

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><p>Peter was running like the ball was flying over his head and he was just about to touch the base for a home run. And he was shouting, screaming, waving his arms up in the air, making so much noise he was sure they could hear him for miles.<p>

But the truck didn't stop. He lost sight of it as it cleared the ridge way before he did, even though it was going slow and he was sprinting, and once he'd made it - gasping, wanting to pass out - he could no longer see where it had gone.

He stared at the ground. He felt like he was going to fall, nausea from sudden exhaustion was growing in his head and soon he would have to stop - but not now. He'd been so close! If he could only climb higher...

He took another step, and the pain that rose up his foot made the blood drain from his face. No. No. The force that had possessed him to make it to the ridge while screaming for the truck had left him now, he felt pain again and it was worse than ever. He thought, maybe he could jump in one foot, sure, he was tired, he hadn't had anything substantial to eat in, what, a week? No, it hadn't been a week, no way, but it sure felt like one… it was definitely not three days now, it had to be four. But he had just had a drink! That had to count for something.

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><p>He began to limp behind the deep furrows that the truck's tyres had dug into the sand. He figured he had nothing to lose, and so he walked on, staggering and dragging his bad foot behind him. He was staring so intently at the tracks that when the rumbling of an engine echoed in the distance he nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned around, frantic to locate the source of the sound, and when he saw the dust rising over a small slope of sand and loose stone he found the strength to run again. The sound was stationary, when he reached the top it had not moved, and once he saw the truck he understood why. Below the slope where he stood the jagged shoreline continued, and a hundred yards in front of him a beach of sand and broken shells ended in a series of tidal pools of turquoise water. In that beach, a rusty old pick-up truck was rumbling and roaring, the accelerator pushed to the floor, but instead of moving forwards sand was flying from behind, and the back wheels were sinking deeper and deeper.<p>

"Move, God damnit! Move!" he heard a shrill scream, and the voice, even distorted and distant, sounded familiar. Peter wrinkled his eyes as he limped forward, trying to catch a glimpse from the other side of the closed window of the truck. He could see a head of dark hair inside, his heart drummed with hope that it was Neal, but then the figure turned and instead his blood seemed to thicken in his veins. He stopped walking, just as his dark eyes met with Simon's through the glass.

"Oy! Stop!" a second, unfamiliar voice called from Peter's right - it took him a mmoment to make out his words and language - and he turned. A stocky, dark-tanned man was running over the round rocks that covered the ground fifty yards from the water, hauling a bag of black netting on his back. He wore faded shorts, a longsleeved shirt, and a faded green sports cap with a white hankerchief stuck underneath it that served to shield the back of his neck from the sun. He was running barefoot, with canvas sneakers held in his hand. He raised his hands up in the air when he saw Peter. "Stop! Stop him! My truck! My truck!"

The truck continued to roar and skid in the sand - it had not moved an inch. Peter stared at the stranger, not understanding his desperation, until his brain issued a warning on what his ears were hearing. The sound of the engine had become shrill, higher pitched. It was a sound of protest. He started forwards again, dragging his bad foot behind, until he was beside the truck. He could feel its heat radiating from under the bonnet even standing a few feet away. He slammed his hand on the window.

"Simon! Turn off the car!"

Simon looked at him, his eyes wide and red-rimmed, his face shining with sweat. He kept on stepping on the accelerator.

"You'll blow the engine!"

"Get out of the way!"

"Simon, for God's sake! What are you doing!"

Peter took a step back, ready to hit the window, but the stranger - and apparent owner of the truck - was already behind him, and he felt a rush of wind by his cheek as a large round rock flew past his face, to crash through the glass of the window.

"Uh! Jesus!" said Simon, his voice hissing. Peter saw his face covered in blood, but then he couldn't see it, as the stranger had half his body inside the truck through the window - he then managed to open the door, kill the engine, and drag Simon out. He left him lying in the ground, groaning and covering his bleeding face with his hands, and got inside the truck. He grunted in rage, and looked down at Simon.

"You will pay for my fuel and my oil, you stupid crook!" he shouted in a language Peter only understood with effort. "And the repair of my window!"

"And you will pay for my face! Ugh! I think you broke my nose."

"A broken nose is the least of your problems," Peter muttered, and pulled Simon up from the ground. He fished out from the broken twigs and bits of cactus mess that was his bag, a pair of zipties that he kept in case of emergencies, and he tied Simon's hands behind his back. He began to drag him to the back of the pick up, but when he opened it he stopped.

"What is this?"

There were broken crates in the back, and canvas bags where pieces of old and greenish metal could be seen around the torn edges. There among what looked like scraps Peter recognised the gleam of gold, and he knew he was looking at the looted treasure they had dropped from the plane.

"He has a gun," the owner of the truck spoke from behind Peter, still breathing hard from his run. The mental translation of the words reached Peter's mind at the same time as he remembered how he'd parted ways with Simon. Then he felt a hard point digging into his side. Simon had his back to him, but he'd managed to reach for the gun, in his back pocket probably, and he was holding it upside down in his ziptied hands.

"Try anything and I'll shoot," he said. "So don't move. I'm sure you're a really nice guy, John, so I don't want to have to kill you."

"Simon…"

"Shut up. Now, you look like the kind of guy that carries a pocket knife. Am I correct?"

"I lost it in the crash."

"Is that true?"

"Yes."

Simon turned his head to the other side, and looked at the owner, who was standing frozen beside his truck.

"You, fisherman. Look through this man's bag."

"I… I don't want problems."

"You've already got problems. Do you want me to kill this man? You want that on your conscience?"

The fisherman reached for Peter's bag and searched through it without pulling it from his back. He took out Peter's small pocket knife.

"Now cut this thing off me."

The ziptie came off. Simon turned to grab his gun properly with one hand, and he tightened the other on Peter's arm. When addressing him, he switched back to plain English.

"I thought you must be dead. Is the pilot dead?"

"No. He's behind the big ridge of dunes waiting for me."

"Good. I can take you, but I'll be damned if I take that bastard too. Now, you both are going to help me get this truck free."

"Listen, Simon, I'll let you go. I'll tell my bosses you're dead, I'll even give you a new passport. But please, we need to pick Neal up."

"No."

"Simon, it wasn't his fault—"

"Wasn't it?" Didn't he say he had the solution, that we would make it to the runway if he did that trick he did? I've had plenty of time to think about it, John — or Peter, or whatever the hell your name is. I'm not wasting an ounce of fuel to look for anyone. What's going to happen is this: Mr. Fisherman here will drive us back to the road. Then I'll drive, and the three of us will travel to the runway and make the delivery. If you behave, Peter, then I won't tell my bosses you're a fed. But if you try anything, I'll leave them to deal with you, and you can be sure they won't show you the mercy I've shown you."

Peter said nothing. His mind was a stream of constant curses, escalating in gravity until he reached a level of which he knew he'd be ashamed of if he didn't believe in that moment that fate was playing cruel games with him. This couldn't be happening. This just couldn't be happening. This not only meant that he would not be able to save Neal - he would not even be able to find him, ever again. Same as Charlie.

"What about Charlie?" he said.

Simon's face hardened.

"Charlie's dead."

"He's still there in the sand by the plane. Do you think it shows any caring on your part, to leave him like that?"

"Shut up, okay? You know nothing about me and Charlie, he was like a brother to me."

"And that's how you treat him? How are you going to go and tell his sister now? How are you going to tell her, tell Charlie's family, that you left him to lie buried without mark or word or ceremony, where they'll never be able to visit him?"

"Shut up! You force me and I swear to God I'll kill you."

"Do it, then." Peter dropped his bag, and raised both hands in the air. "Go right ahead and shoot me."

Simon frowned. He shook his head, puzzled.

"Just get in the car. We're leaving."

"No. I'm not going anywhere, and in fact, you're going to have to kill me if you want to take this truck." Peter backed into the broken window of the pilot's seat, blocking the way in from that side. "If you only wound me I swear to God I'll do all in my power to stop you from getting what you want."

"Listen, if you think I don't mean it…"

"Oh, I know you don't. So what's it going to be? Are you going take me to pick up my friend, or are you going to leave yet another dead body in the desert?"

Simon gritted his teeth, his eyes bulging. The gun shook in his hands. He breathed in one small hissing gulp at a time, and then his hand steadied.

"So be it," he said, his voice grave, and Peter's breath hitched and panic rushed in. He was going to shoot. He was doing it, he really was, it hadn't worked, he'd underestimated Simon and his desperattion to get out of the desert as a free man - a powerful motivation indeed. He saw how his eyes became dull, how he closed one to aim and how his finger began to close on the trigger. He kicked up sand to Simon's eyes and the shot burst almost simultaneusly. Peter found himself on his elbows, down in the sand. His ears ringed, but there was no sharp pain. Everything seemed to become silent. He turned, and saw Simon in the ground, one hand on his eyes and the other searching frantically for a gun lost in the sand. Peter saw it lying just a couple of feet to his right, and he reached for it, but his hand touched it just as Simon's finger were again closing in on it, one on the trigger.

"Simon…"

Simon remained stoic and aloof.

"I won't miss this time," he said, lifting the gun.

"Simon, wait—"

A blow. It sounded like Peter imagined a large meaty wrecking ball would sound if it hit a man full on. The black netting bag hit Simon in the side of his head and it knocked him out cold, leaving him lying face down and with sand plastered to the side of his face, which was wet from the hundreds of fresh — and mostly still alive — sand crabs that the net bag held. Once he was down, Peter could see the fisherman standing behind him. It took him a moment to catch his breath, to let his previous panic finish running its course throughout his body, and then he smiled. He stretched his hand out.

"Thanks," he said.

The fisherman nodded.

"My name's Peter. I'm an FBI agent. Police."

The fisherman nodded again.

"Would you help me carry this man to your trunk?"

Only then did the man speak.

"I would have helped him anyway, but he put a gun to my head. He made me drive to the deeper dunes to get all this junk."

Peter stared again at the treasure. He imagined what Neal would say when he learned that it wasn't lost. He swallowed back, and it was painful. Searching in his bag, he pulled out the badge he'd hidden inside a conspicuous looking wallet.

"I'm going to need you to help me," he said, showing his badge. The fisherman's eyes widened.

"What sort of police are you?"

"Foreign police."

"Like, international?"

No, that wasn't quite right…

Peter smiled.

"Yeah, you could say that…"

"Then you can tell me what is happening? What is this odd person doing here? And why are you here?"

"I will explain," said Peter. "But I need you to help me first."

"Fine. What do you need."

"I need water. And I need you to take me with your truck to the other side of the dune ridge, not this one here, but the one behind, the big one - and as fast as possible."

The fisherman reached inside for a bottle that he gave to Peter with a weary face.

"You don't look so good," he said. Peter couldn't help it but chuckle.

"No kidding…" he muttered. The fisherman raised his eyebrows, confused at the English. Peter shook his head, and downed the bottle. "Never mind."

"Now you need to help me get the truck free. We need to deflate the tyres if we hope to climb where you say. The sand is very soft there."

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><p><strong>Happy Easter! If you're feeling like it, do review! I'll hide one of my Easter Eggs in your name! <strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**What I've got to say for myself that will justify this terrible delay in posting? Nothing, really. It was a blow that both my workplace and my university, the places where I spend 90% of my waking hours, decided to filter-block both ff dot net AND dropbox and google drive. But it's still no excuse. No one likes to be left hanging. I'll try and make it up to you. I wish I could post a longer chapter, but viewpoints are currently dictating length.**

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><p><strong>A recap:<strong>

_Neal, still under the impression that he has left Peter behind, has reached the shore._

_Meanwhile, Peter, under the impression that Neal is still back where he left him, has found a fisherman that had previously come to the aid of Simon, and now is willing to help him. _

_This is a Neal POV Chapter. _

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><p>He closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep. He remained wedged firmly on the rock, afraid that if he let his awareness slip he would fall back into the water, or - even worse - he would never wake up. Every minute it was harder to keep himself focused enough not to slide down, every minute he felt more acutely the severe exhaustion of his muscles, his limbs were more stiff, he felt more battered, almost as if he had been beaten. He tried to adjust himself to a more comfortable position, not that comfort abounded on a bare tidal rock, but maybe there was another ledge somewhere-<p>

He felt something scratch his legs. A rope was being pulled towards the beach and it was sliding over his lap - they were hauling it so fast it didn't take long for him to feel the heat of friction. He pushed the rope away. Then he stared at it again, now a few feet below him hovering above the water, and he cursed his own sluggish mind. _A rope! A moving rope!_ There had to be someone pulling it, there had to be people in the shore, if he could only make his presence known…

This time he didn't think much about what he was going to do. He didn't even count down from three. He just jumped, his bare feet propelling him from the rock and his arms stretched out to hold the rope. Halfway down, half a second from landing, he saw he'd pushed himself off a little too hard, and it was his chest that hit the rope, driving his breath out before bouncing him off into the water. When he surfaced, gasping, he heard shouting, but the voices were too fast and distant for him to understand what they were saying.

The rope was above his head now, but he managed to pull it down to the surface level, and he grabbed on to it, slipping only for a moment before he started being dragged towards the shore. The resistance of the water forced spray into his face, and made him slide back all the way till foam buoys attached to the rope afforded him a better grip. After an endless minute, he spotted the men doing the pulling, and he felt his heart sink when he realised they were not on the beach. There were two of them, he could make out only their silhouettes as they stood atop a rock much larger than the one he'd just jumped down from. They were pulling a fishing net, standing one in front of the other and moving in coordination so at times there seemed to be just one man.

"Daniel, there's something in the net!" He heard one the men call, now that he was closer.

"Must be seaweed!"

"It's not seaweed!"

Neal raised his head. He saw one of the men skip down the rock so he was closer to the water. They were both speaking fast and it wasn't English, but somehow his mind still understood.

"I think it's a sea lion..."

"Caught in the net? Must be a dead one!"

A wave crashed on top of Neal, driving him underwater for a second. When he surfaced again, he was on his side, and he raised his bare arm in a half wave.

"Jesus Christ!" The man ran back to his partner. "Daniel! It's a body! It's a person, I... I think it's alive!"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Look for yourself!"

Neal wished he could call out to them, but salt now coated his throat and he could barely speak. The men began to bicker between each other, but they did not pause their pulling, and soon Neal was mere feet away from the rock. He forced his now stiff hands to let go of the rope, and he grabbed on to the nearest ledge. Both men climbed down.

"Grab him! It's nothing but sea urchins down there!" the one called Daniel shouted. Almost at the same time, as Neal tried to place his foot on an underwater section of the rock in order to climb, he felt a sting like he'd stepped hard on a bed of nails. He cried out, let go of the rock, and was about to fall back into the washing machine-like tide when a hand grabbed his arm. He was hauled up, his trousers tearing against the rock wall he was dragged over, and deposited on a sunk ledge in which a tidal pool had formed.

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><p>"Where did he come from? He just floated out of nowhere."<p>

"Maybe one of the camps. Decided to take a swim in the middle of the night…"

"He's fully dressed, Daniel. And look at his skin, it's all peeling back. He looks like a castaway."

There was a pause.

"Maybe he's one of the people from the car, the crashed car. A survivor."

"And he walked all this way?"

"Makes sense, the way he looks…"

"Hey."

Neal raised his head, splashing in the two inches of water he was lying on. He saw both men flinching at the sound of his voice, as if startled by the sound, and they turned towards him. Beside them, the net was now completely collected, and fresh fish flapped in plastic containers beside it. Two tall fishing rods were leaning against the top of the rock.

"Do you have-water?" he asked. He made a gulping sound and mimicked holding a bottle to his mouth. One of the men stood right up.

"My God… Right, of course. I'm sorry," he said, and turned back. "Daniel, the bottle." His partner threw him a clear plastic container. Neal, still lying on his side, got up on his elbows. He could no longer identify where pain was coming from, but the movement made him wince. He was all out of adrenaline, and his brain was starting to cloud. The man placed a hand on his shoulder, and helped him sit with his back to the rock. Then he gave him the bottle, but Neal's hand slipped.

"I've got it," he said, trying to grab it again. The man shook his head and placed the beak of the bottle right into Neal's mouth, disregarding his protests. Neal drunk greedily, he drank the bottle dry. But he was still thirsty.

"I guess this means we're calling it a day, eh?" Daniel said. He began to fold the net - which wasn't too large - into a tall backpack. Neal reckoned it must be quite heavy, but the man swung it over his shoulders like it had nothing but cotton. Then he grabbed one of the plastic crates where the fish still flopped, and rested it over his head. "Gordo, ask him if he can walk," he said.

"Can you walk?"

Neal took a moment to answer, perplexed at the need for double questions. They seemed to believe he could not understand what they were saying.

"Yes," he said. Gordo began to help him stand. Halfway up his knees folded, and he had to grab on to the fisherman's windbreaker to keep himself from scratching his legs again on the rocks. Something in his right foot burned.

"I thought so," said Gordo, shaking his head and pulling Neal's arm over his shoulder. He turned to his partner. "We're going to have to do two trips. First him, then the fish."

"I'd rather take the fish first. If a big wave comes, that's our payday, gone."

"If a big wave comes, it'll take the castaway with it, poor man can't even stand. It's Saint Peter's and Saint Paul's tomorrow, have a heart, man."

Daniel rolled his eyes. "Says the guy who gets drunk on holy feast day wine before mass."

"That was just last year, okay! The fish will stay here, Daniel. You just carry the first batch and I'll take the castaway, I'll come back for the second batch once I get him to the dry sand. If the sea takes the fish, it'll come from my pocket."

"Man, you will go to heaven," said Daniel, shaking his head. "Be wary of the rocks on your way out." Then he turned away, and he effortlessly leapt down to the lower ledges, wearing only flip-flops made of old tyres and with the large crate of fish still on his head and the fish net on his backpack. He jumped from one rocky outcropping to another, and then another closer to the shore, as if he was carrying no weight at all.

"I can't do that," Neal muttered. "I-I mean, I could do it. But not now. Now, I can't."

Gordo turned towards him.

"What did you say?"

"I said I can't do that," he pointed at Daniel's disappearing silhouette, shaking his head. "I can't jump."

"Oh. You mean go the way he's gone? No, we're not doing that."

Neal frowned.

"Have you understood what I just said?"

Gordo nodded.

"Let's go now. We're between sets now, it'll be easier."

Gordo began to walk to the edge of the rock. Neal resisted.

"It's all right, man! It's all good. I'll help you."

"Are we going to swim? Just tell me, I'd—I'd like to be psychologically prepared, we're going to swim the whole way?"

"Ready?"

"No, I'm not ready, are you hearing a single word I'm saying?"

"On the count to three. One. Two."

"Oh my God…"

"Three!"

Neal didn't jump, but Gordo's leap into space was enough impulse for the both of them, and he landed back into the freezing water at least two feet away from the rock. He sank, but he was pulled out almost right away, and despite his fumbling efforts to swim it was Gordo's powerful kick that got him moving forwards, dragged by the remaining tatters of his jacket. After a minute he let Gordo do all the swimming - he had enough on his plate trying to stay afloat. The sea was rough and roaring, the waves were coming from every direction as a result of the interference of the rocks in their pattern, and at points when he tried to kick himself afloat his feet touched a rough bottom, sending needles of pain up his legs.

But, he told himself, it was over.

A cloud of fatalistic despair had hung over his head for the past three days and only now, as he neared the shore, he felt himself free of it.

He was going to get out of this.

He was going to see New York again.

He was going to see Peter-No. No, he wasn't.

His new-found hope plummeted to the ground, even though his realisation was not at all unexpected. He'd wandered through that particular line of thought mere hours before, but he'd never felt the emotion as intense as then, when his mind was too tired to hold anything back, or to cling to false hopes. He sunk, swallowed water. Gordo was forced to stop, turn back, and pull him to the surface. Neal could tell they were close now, as a wave pushed them forwards and they rolled with it in a swirl of sand and tangled seaweed. When his feet finally touched the wet sand he felt like crying, but not of joy. He let go of Gordo, and collapsed at the edge of the sea, his breath whistling. He closed his eyes and wished he'd never found help at all.

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><p><strong>I hope you enjoyed this. Only about 4 more chapters to go. If you'd like, leave a review, and I will treasure it forever (seriously, I've got a docx file marked reviews). Special thanks to those whose reviews spurred me back into coffee-shop-posting action. Have a great day. <strong>


	14. Chapter 14

**Hey again! I'm early now, I bet you didn't see that one coming! I like this chapter a lot. I hope you'll like it too. We're back to Peter, who's looking for Neal with the help of another fisherman. **

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><p>The truck was very old, and with a stick shift. It reminded Peter of the one his father had owned growing up, and so he had no problem to be the one sitting inside pressing on the accelerator whenever the fisherman screamed at him to push it. It must've been around five in the afternoon when they managed to free it, and he switched to the passenger seat. The heat had not made him sweat in days, but now after he'd had several bottlefuls he was sweating again, and his skin felt coated with a thick layer of dust that stuck to the dampness.<p>

"Over the big ridge, you say? The sea of dunes, that is where your friend is?"

"Yes," said Peter. "Just behind the sea of dunes, I think. There is a large sinking hole, do you know it?"

"Yes. I know it."

"How soon can we get there?"

He was growing impatient. He'd left Neal the whole day now. If he had not woken up, then he had not had anything to drink - every second that passed he could feel his chest tightening.

"Maybe two hours. Sand is tricky, cannot go too fast."

Peter nodded, blinking back a burning feeling in his eyes. The truck rolled out of the sand, the fisherman picked up the orange plastic board he'd used to afford his back tyres a grip over the sand, and they began to climb in zig-zags up the ridge. Secured with zipties in the back, Simon began to groan and complain, but the fisherman turned up his radio - he had a folk percussion CD on — so the sound of drums drowned his voice.

"Does your friend have water? A parasol?"

Peter nodded. He didn't want to explain, so he kept staring outside. His stomach rose and dropped every time they faced a steep slope, and truck tilted and began to slip - but it always pulled through. The fisherman drove ever steady.

"My name is Samuel. Don't worry, surely your friend is fine."

Peter nodded again, but he was breathing in deep through his nose now, struggling to keep calm. The sun was setting but he had no more appreciation for the colours of dusk. He'd seen enough desert sunsets now to last a life time.

"From here, how long is the drive to the road?" he asked.

"Three hours," said Samuel. "Then from there, I can take you to the city, that's one more hour to the city. I can take you there, but I'd need to stop and fill up the tank."

"Don't worry about it," Peter muttered. "I've got you covered. And thank you."

"It's all fine."

Peter was silent next, though his fingernails were digging into the plastic inside door handle of the ancient pick-up truck. The drumming went on, and on, and on, until he could feel it matched perfectly the beat of his heart. When the clock of the car read 7:00 pm, there was still some light left, although it would not last. They cleared another small dune, Peter felt the now familiar sinking feeling in his stomach as they started to come down. He saw then, in the failing light, the dark shadow of the strange sand sinkhole, looking larger and deeper than he'd remembered.

"Stop here," he said.

"Here?"

"Yes. You can't go down, there's a car at the bottom of the hole."

Samuel blinked slowly. A deep frown formed on his forehead.

"What do you mean, there is another car?"

"Yes. A wrecked car."

Samuel pulled to a stop. Peter stepped out into the cold sand. He had his shoes back on, as they provided some support for his bad foot, but still after some time sitting down the pain was even worse than he remembered. But he swallowed it back. His heart was beating too fast, and air was rushing into his lungs with far more strength than necessary — physical pain, although intense, soon became secondary. He walked slowly down the incline, until he could see the shadow of the wrecked car. But his eyes could not make out much else.

"Do you have a flashlight?" he asked. Samuel nodded, and seconds later a beam lit up the bottom of the hole. Peter walked ahead, and the fisherman followed him with the light set on the ground.

_Please._

_Please._

_Please._

"Neal?" he said. The soft night wind carried his voice away. It was now completely dark.

There was no answer.

"Point the light over there."

Peter pointed at a far spot. Samuel came around the car, and the beam was no longer so steady. Despite the wind, there was a stale smell in the air.

"Did you know the people who were in this car?" he asked, his voice shaking. When Peter turned he saw the man crossing himself, his face pale.

"No. They were here before us. Please, point the light over here."

Peter pointed again. The light came to rest in the place where he left Neal, and he closed his eyes. He thought he'd never get over it if he was dead. That he would drop dead as well, right then and there. He couldn't, he just couldn't…

_Please._

_Please!_

He opened his eyes.

There was nothing there.

"No… No, I left him here…"

He staggered forwards, and started turning on his heels. There were no footprints, no marks, only the waving lines that the wind had left.

"No… No!"

Barely able to stand, he searched, and turned, turned, turned, but he saw nothing. He moved further away, called desperately for the light to follow the dark places where his eyes searched, and then he turned again, faster now, until he was dizzy.

"He was right here…"

"Perhaps he walked away…"

"He can't have! He was unconscious. He couldn't even stand, he couldn't have walked away."

"Perhaps this is not the place."

"It is! There's the car right there! Even the graves-" He stopped, turned back. The graves were gone. The footprints he'd left walking from the truck towards where he now stood were the only marks in the sand. He could no longer see any mounds, or any debris left from the car. Looking closely now, the whole wreck seemed to have sunk a foot under the sand. The sandstorm had buried everything. He looked back at the place where he'd been searching, and spotted a rag protruding from the dust, catching the light of Samuel's trembling flashlight. Peter felt like he was going to be sick.

"God, no…"

He dropped to his knees, and sunk his hands in the sand. The rag came out and he recognised it as a part of the bandage he'd wrapped around Neal's head, which had been lost during the first sandstorm. He threw it back, and kept digging, desperate, frantic, he pushed the sand apart and reached deeper, then moved to the side and dug again in a different spot, and he did so again, and again, and again, vaguely aware that his chest was shaking, that he was sobbing.

He stopped.

He felt as though his soul had been sucked out of him. He sat still, in silence.

He lost track of time. When he felt something touch his shoulder he flinched, and he took a second to remember the fisherman — Samuel, that was his name. He stood, his weight just on one leg, and he wiped the sand that had stuck to his face, in the shape of tears he could not remember shedding. He swallowed back, blinked a few times, and stood.

"We must go to the beach. That's where he was heading."

Samuel nodded once, and retreated to the car, taking care of where he stepped. Peter was thankful that he didn't say anything, and yet he could see in the way the man was trying not to stare that he didn't really believe there was anyone to be found in the beach.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" he whispered. If he'd had half of his presence of mind in that moment, we never would've asked that question.

Samuel just shrugged.

"You have to be at least a little crazy to be in this place."

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><p><strong>Don't worry. The angst will end. There is happiness at the end of this dry, dry desert. If you'd like, leave me a reviewcomment in the box below! I love it when you do, I've got a pretty important exam tomorrow and hearing from you guys will be great start to the day! Wish me luck! **


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. A recap:**

**Peter is riding a fisherman's truck, searching for Neal in the desert. Now we return to Neal at the beach.**

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><p>"Hey. Hey. Hey."<p>

Neal opened his eyes. Shallow water crept up his clothes as the end of a wave reached him.

"No," he said. "Leave me be."

"Come on, friend. We can help you. We can get you home, but you need to move..."

"Oh, just leave him, Gordo. It'll be dawn before we can get to the car. Let the man sleep."

"I just want to get him to the dry sand. It's very cold."

"He'll move when he starts to feel it."

"I don't think he will..."

"Then what do you want to do? Do you propose we carry him?" The two men exchanged a glance. Daniel sighed. "Fine, then," he said. "I'll grab his feet."

Neal felt himself half carried half dragged up to where the water didn't reach and the sand was dry and flat - not wavy, and it had something like a crust over it. When he let his hands fall down limply, there was a squeaky sound when this crust was broken. For some reason he found that funny, and he was smiling when sleep washed over him as sudden as a light bulb switched off.

A brief rumbling startled him awake, an undetermined amount of time later. He opened his eyes to see the blurry image of an ancient dirt bike. His body flailed uselessly as he tried to sit up, his eyes wide open now, and his mind alert and aware and fully conscious of the fact that Peter was still out there and now he had a way of getting to him, he could rescue him, they could still make it out, both of them, and then he wouldn't have to call Elizabeth and tell her that her husband was lost in the desert and that she would never see him again and she would never know how it wasn't true what-

"Whoah! Gordo! The castaway is up!"

"I need to get to the top of the dunes. I need to get to the top," Neal said, rolling unto his chest so that he could stretch his stiff arms to grab the rubber wheel of the bike. The fisherman standing closest to him grabbed his shoulder to steady him.

"Calm down, friend. We'll take you home, you just have to wait a while longer."

"No! No, I need to get to the top, to the dunes! To the big sandhole!"

The man turned back.

"Gordo, come over here."

"What is it?"

"I think the castaway's about to go crazy."

"Just wait a second. I'm just about to finish with this batch."

"I'll crack the clamshells, you deal with this guy."

Breathing hard, Neal forced himself to speak louder now.

"Please! Please! Just get me to the top of the dunes! My friend is there! We need to go get him!"

Both men were now in front of him, and he stared at them. He didn't stop to wonder about the language they were speaking, all his mind could process at the moment was that he could understand them, so why on earth couldn't they understand him? His hands tightened on the dirt bike's wheel. He felt himself on the verge of tears.

"I just need to find my friend. I just need to get back to the top, I just need to find my friend."

"Calm down. Let go of the wheel."

One of the fishermen pried his fingers loose from the dirt bike's wheel, and then grabbed his shoulders, placing him in a half sitting position. The other one moved the bike away. The rumbling sounded again, only for a second.

"It won't start."

"Try the kick again."

Neal grabbed on to the nearest fishermen's leg, and with his other arm he pointed at the dunes to the East.

"There. My friend is there. We need to go get him, he has no water."

The man turned to his partner.

"Gordo, the guy's lost it…"

"No. He's trying to say something, I think."

"He's just blubbering, there's no sense in it."

Neal let go of the man, and pointed with both hands towards the dunes.

"I'm not blubbering, for God's sake! How many times will I have to tell you!"

"See?" said Gordo. "Can't understand a thing."

"Damn it! No! Why aren't you listening to me!" _Why is this happening, why is this happening, this can't be happening, why, why…_

"Stop."

The fisherman who'd taken him to the shore - Gordo, what kind of name was Gordo? - was in front of him now, kneeling so they were facing each other at the same level.

"Can you understand what I'm saying?" he asked him. Neal swallowed back, and tried to regain some of his self-control.

"Yes."

"Just nod or shake your head."

"My head hurts."

"Can you nod? Can you do that?"

Neal nodded, wincing at the pain the movement caused him.

"That's good!" said Gordo. "So listen. We need to wait until dawn before we leave. Then we'll go to the highway and from there you can use our phone to call someone."

Neal shook his head vigorously, never mind the pain.

"No. No. My friend is still up there."

"What?"

"My friend! His name is Peter. I left him up there with no water, he's been there the whole day, how can I get you to understand, we were so close, so close to making it, the both of us, if I had just waited for him if we had both come down to the coast but we didn't now I have to tell his wife, I have to tell his wife…"

He could not keep himself sitting up any longer. His head flopped forwards and he would've eaten sand again had Gordo not held him, turning him on his back. Neal tried to speak again but he found that he couldn't, and his eyes closed against his will, and his hands no longer responded to him.

"Daniel, you need to get my father. We need to go now, this can't wait."

Neal heard their voices getting lower. The rumbling of the bike came again, but though this time it was not as brief, it wasn't as loud either. He must've heard it for a minute more, mixed with voices, until finally it all faded into the background.

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><p><strong>Sorry it's so short. I'll try and make it up to you next time. I hope you enjoyed this, and if you did, let me know! Love hearing from you! <strong>


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: I'm sorry I have not replied to your reviews. Do know that I appreciate each and every one of them, and I will try to catch up. In the meantime, here's another chapter (closer and closer to the end now). I hope you enjoy it. **

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><p>The truck stopped on its descent down to the beach. They were slightly tilted so Peter found his face stuck to the dusty glass of the half-opened window. He unstuck himself, and turned to his side. Samuel was switching on his flashlight, and pointing it down the slope.<p>

"What is it?" he asked.

"I thought I saw something."

Peter stood up straighter, more alert. The box of cornflakes that he'd been nibbling half-heartedly some time earlier fell from his lap, but he didn't pick it back up.

"Like, a person?"

"Perhaps… I saw a light, a moving light."

"Neal didn't have a flashlight with him…"

"There! There it is again!"

A single, large round beam of yellow light shone further down, coming up the dunes. Samuel turned his headlights on and off, as a way of hello, and the single beam answered accordingly, but then its light flickered and went off again.

"What is this idiot doing up here?" Samuel muttered.

"You know who it is?"

"Yes. He works for me."

Samuel opened the door and stepped out of the car. Peter did the same, forgetting that the car was tilted to his side, and he ended up sprawled in the sand.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

"Just fine!" said Peter, spitting out sand. The box of cornflakes had fallen with him and he threw it back inside, sand and all, and he stood up on one leg. He began to spot the shadow of something moving closer, until it was so close he could hear the sound of a second engine, and then the headlights of the truck caught a young man riding an old dirt bike.

"Daniel, what the devil are you doing here? Where's Sami?" Samuel asked. The man got down from the bike, and then proceeded to speak in an agitated voice to Samuel. They both began to talk too fast for Peter to understand - he could only make out scattered words: beach, rocks, clams - God, couldn't they be less generic?

"What is going on?" he asked. The other fisherman stared at him, and looked at Samuel.

"Who is he?"

"He is an international policeman."

"What are international policemen doing here? What is going on?"

"Their plane crashed."

"Their plane crashed? Uncle, be serious, we would've seen a plane crashing here, there is something really strange going on..."

"It was before we got here. Now, get the bike up on the back so we can get going."

The younger fisherman grabbed on to the handles of his bike, and pushed it over the soft sand to the back of the pick-up. Peter limped over to Samuel.

"What is it? What did he say?"

Samuel was dead serious - he placed a hand on Peter's shoulder as he spoke.

"We will find your friend when we get to the beach."

Peter paled. He felt a sudden weakness in the one leg that now supported him.

"They found him? Is he all right? Is he alone?"

Samuel shook his head and Peter felt like grabbing him by the collar and shaking him to make him talk faster.

"He is with my son. They pulled him from the water, so my nephew tells me. We are heading that way now."

"But is he all right? Is he all right! Oh my God..."

"He is-"

"Uncle! Jesus Christ, uncle! There's another man here!"

Samuel turned away, grunting. Peter remained standing on one leg, leaning against the bonnet of the pick-up, unable to move. He felt strangely numb. He couldn't-couldn't believe it. The fishermen began to talk again, behind him, their voices agitated. Somewhere in between he heard Simon complaining about the tightness of his zip-ties, but no one paid attention to him. Peter's eyes trailed the horizon until he took note of the lighter blue of the sky behind the dunes. He was going to see the sun rise yet again in this desert.

"Hey. Hey! Get in the car!"

Peter turned. The younger fisherman had occupied the back seat and was beckoning him inside. He blinked, made his way back to the door supporting himself with the truck, and got in, closing the door with effort as he remained tilted in his seat. Samuel passed him another water bottle.

"Drink," he said, frowning, then he continued their zigzag descent towards the black shore. Peter drunk in silence and kept still, his mind blank, but his heart was hammering against his chest like rounds of artillery.

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><p>The truck slowed down and levelled, and Peter became aware of the sickly sweet smell of drying seaweed, the distant crashing of waves. It was still dark, less than half an hour had passed since he'd last been aware of his surroundings, but it could've been a whole day for all he knew.<p>

"There they are," said Samuel. Peter leaned forwards, and spotted a young man waving both his arms up, as if there was any possibility he would be missed. He was standing in front of a large mound of dark rock, and below, in the sand...

Peter took in a big, gulping breath – he could not manage to speak. Hope rushed inside him in that breath, the same hope that hadn't really registered in his brain when the second fisherman showed up. He was seeing him now, he would've had to walk there, so he was alive, he was alive, _he had to be alive._

When the car came to a stop - he had to force himself to wait for that to happen, his mind telling him to jump but his foot screaming at him to stop the abuse - he made his way out and hobbled over to the third fisherman. He kneeled down on the ground, collapsed almost, _God, he could hardly walk._

"Neal? Neal? Can you hear me?" He grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him but got no reaction. He was lying with half his face in the sand and his wet clothes were clogged with it.

"I don't know what is wrong with him. He was talking nonsense and then he just keeled over," the third fisherman said. Neal had his eyes closed, his face was pale. Peter could hear his breath whistling, and in the light of the truck's headlights he could see his skin – that which showed under the sand - covered in scratches and bruises.

"How long ago was he awake?"

"Maybe an hour ago, I'm not sure. A few minutes ago he started shaking."

"Shaking? What do you mean he stared shaking?!"

"He was just shaking, shivering, I don't know!"

Peter rubbed his forehead, breathing hard.

"Damn it, damn it to hell."

The fisherman stared at him, his eyes wide, and Peter saw that the man was afraid of him. He forced himself to calm down, he told his mind it was over, it was over, they were both going home and they were both going to be all right, but when he grabbed Neal's arm he saw his own hands were shaking.

"Okay. Okay," he spoke between breaths. "Let's get him inside the car. Let's get out of this place."

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><p><strong>I hope you will again grace me with your reviews, comments, suggestions, and whatever comes to mind. Hearing from you is my favourite part of the day! <strong>


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Here's another one. They are shorter now, but they will be coming more frequently. We're near the end now. Thanks for reviewing, and I hope you enjoy this. Neal POV now. **

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><p>He started registering sound again, with a gradual increase of the volume. At first there was only the fisherman's voice - Gordo's, getting shriller and more desperate by the minute - telling him that help was on the way, and that it was all going to be fine. He wanted to tell him to stop, because nothing was ever going to be fine again, but he couldn't bring himself to speak.<p>

Eventually the rumbling came back, but louder now. With some effort he distinguished the louder put-put-put of the dirt bike from the steadier humming of a larger vehicle, and he knew that both were close, but he made no effort to reveal his current state of awareness. He was past the point of not caring, and once again his mind was retreating into that silent place where it had been once before, where he could no longer feel pain or guilt or regret.

Hands grabbed the lapel of his shirt and what remained of his jacket, and fabric tore. The brief silence ended and his mind was brought back to the surface as he felt himself be carried upwards, while other hands wrapped around his feet. The hands - all four of them - were clumsy and uncoordinated, and a few times he was sure he was going to be dropped, but he made no movement to brush them away. He was prepared to wait it out, when he felt a texture other than sand underneath him. He opened his eyes, and his hands touched a worn but soft carpet-like cloth. He smelled fish. Voices reached him through the haze.

"…pills work?"

"A definite improvement. I hope I haven't damaged it too much."

"Man, you are mad. I wouldn't have walked on that foot for a hundred metres, much less all the way down from the Dune of Beyond. How long have you been here?"

"I think this is the fifth day. Today's the 29th, right?"

"Yes. Saint Peter and Saint Paul's. You said your name was Peter, no? Light him a candle when you get back home."

A chuckle. "I certainly will."

"How long have you not eaten? All this time?"

"If you don't count some pieces of cactus, then yes, all this time. We had no food with us. It was only supposed to be an hour-long flight."

"So, you're an international policeman, for real? Like FBI?"

"Exactly like FBI."

"Your friend too?"

There was a small hesitation.

"Yeah, my friend too."

Neal blinked several times to clear his vision, recognising both voices, although the words were odd in his ears — it wasn't English, and his mind told him he had to be imagining it, because it just couldn't be. He searched with his eyes but the edges of all he saw were darkened and he could only make out a clear circle in the middle. He took in a big, gasping breath, and shifted, hoping to lift his head, but he failed.

"I think he's coming to," he heard the voice of Peter say, and when his face appeared in his limited field of vision, held his breath. Peter was there, Peter was there, _Peter was there!_ But how on earth had he found him? He looked even more sunburned now, but he was smiling. Neal felt his heart race, and he kept on blinking, trying to sit up.

"Whoa, now. Easy. Stay down, Neal."

"Peter."

He heard a husky laugh. Peter was in the front seat and peering back at him, one arm stretched out.

"Peter."

"Yes, it's me."

"How-how did you get here?" He heard a biting tone in his own voice that he couldn't explain. It sounded rough, even bitter. Peter frowned. He glowed orange from the rising sun, which meant they were Eastbound. He felt the wheels underneath climbing hard ground, and the bumping of the car made him wince.

"I'm happy to see you, too," said Peter, but it was but a whisper, it didn't sound happy at all. Neal wanted to apologise, but he seemed to be in no control of what he said.

"You were supposed to be dead... I left you over a day ago."

"I thought you were dead too, Neal... My God, you have no idea, I went back to the hole and there was nothing but sand, I thought-"

Neal cut him short, not really listening.

"How did you get here? You couldn't walk. You couldn't chase me, because I took the water, but I was going back for you..." He paused. "I was going to go back, with the fishermen, and we were going to rescue you."

Peter's frown only deepened.

"Going back where? What did you say? Neal, I can't understand..."

"I said I was going to rescue you."

Peter turned away, and spoke to one of the fishermen, who was driving.

"Why is he talking like that?"

"I don't know. It was the same when we found him."

"I can talk just fine," Neal said, and tried to sit up again. His head pounded. The tunnel of his vision became even narrower. Peter faced him again.

"Neal, try to speak slowly. And stay down."

"I left, but I was going back. I was going back."

"Neal... Please."

Neal grabbed the edge of the opened back seat window, and forced himself to sit despite Peter's protests. He began to hear a whistling sound in his chest as he breathed in deep, but he felt powerless lying down, and maybe if he stood he'd be able to speak more clearly.

"You don't understand," he said, wheezing. "I was going back. I was, I didn't just run off…"

"Lie down, Neal."

"I'm fine like this... You're not listening to me."

"Neal..."

Peter's hand grabbed his wrist, and then he turned to the fisherman driving - Neal could no longer remember his name.

"How long did you say it was to the highway? His skin feels too warm."

Neal pulled his hand away, and felt his anger and frustration colouring his face red. Why did he hear himself perfectly and they didn't? Why couldn't Peter understand? He was supposed to be headed to the dunes, he was supposed to pick Peter up, save him from dying of thirst, do the stand up thing and return home with his head held high. Instead, he was lying like a sack of potatoes in the back of a smelly truck that Peter had somehow come across, and it was Peter doing all the rescuing, it was Peter with his head held high, and where the hell had he come from? How was he sitting up, able to smile, able to chat? The rational side of him told him that it was ridiculous to be upset, but he couldn't help it. He only wanted to say it, to let him know, and then maybe they could laugh about it, both of them, but he couldn't say it, he couldn't speak, and how _dare_ he anyway? He'd been miserable, he'd felt so guilty he'd wanted to give up, to die, rather than be rescued alone, he'd wanted Peter to be rescued all along that was why he-

Yes. That was why he'd left, to give Peter a better chance. And he'd continued to wallow in thoughts of guilt and fear and grief, consciously and unconsciously, because he couldn't know if it had worked, if Peter had made it, and he'd begun to think that it was a stupid idea because if they both died, then they did so alone, and if Peter lived, he would think him a coward, and he hadn't done it right anyway, because somehow he had ended up with the water and not Peter - how on earth had that happened? - and all along Peter had been all right, he'd found transport and water and cornflakes - why were there cornflakes on the floor? - so of course, he wasn't being ridiculous at all, he had every reason to be upset, every reason, even if it made no sense at all.

"Neal? Neal? Still with us?"

"Yes." Neal breathed in deep again, and focused all his energy on his pronunciation. "I was... supposed... I was trying to help you. I wasn't running away. I don't know how I ended up with the water, but-" The frown on Peter's face told him that he was not understanding a word, and so he stopped talking. He rubbed at his eyes, and rested his head back again.

"Neal?" Some shuffling. "I think he's out again."

_No, I'm not. _

"It's three more hours until we get to the road. We're heavy laden, can't go fast. From the highway, it's two more…"

_Okay, maybe I am._

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><p><strong>AN: Hope you liked it, leave a message below if you did, or for any comments! Have a Happy Wednesday! **


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Just a short little chapter today. Only two more chapters left! Thanks for reviewing, enjoy!**

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><p>Neal noticed they had left the desert behind when he stopped feeling like he was in a boat riding the high seas - all of a sudden the truck was no longer bumpy, and their going was smooth. He heard sirens and the roaring honks of bigger trucks as they swished past them, and he smiled, letting his legs fall from the cushion and slowly lifting his head up. It was bright day now, and his skin was sticky with sweat and sand. He blinked, but everything was still blurry. His eye-lids were heavy though, and he found it even harder to focus on the two figues occupying the seats in front of him. They were talking, but he could not make out the low murmur of their conversation. Peter was there, wasn't he? Yes. He'd been going to get him, and suddenly it had been Peter coming to get him. He tried finding him in his limited field of vision. He could only see a portion of him, but he seemed all right, chatting, drinking from the fishermen's bottle… wait. Was that a can of Coke? Cold coke? Where did he get that?<p>

_Why don't I have one?_

"Hey, Neal?" he heard him calling, and he found that he was closer than he had guessed from what his eyes told him.

"What?"

Peter smiled - wide enough that it was obvious, even with a blurry picture. "How are you feeling?"

"How am I feeling?" Neal repeated. The question was odd to him. "I don't know."

"Are you dizzy?"

"Dizzy? I guess." He suddenly remembered he'd been trying to tell Peter something, and now he could. "Peter, I wasn't running away."

"Yes, I know."

"No, but… When I said I was leaving. I didn't mean it like that. It wasn't that I wanted to go my own way, I wanted you to—"

"I know, Neal."

"No, you don't know! I thought I had left you on purpose, but I didn't, I remember now, but then I thought you had no water and that you would—"

"Neal. I know. You told me already. Don't you remember?"

"But you couldn't understand…"

"So you told me again. And then you told me again. I think this is the fourth time round, actually."

Neal frowned. He reached for his head, then thought better of it and just let his hands hung loose.

"You're kidding me."

"No, Neal."

Neal let out a big breath, groaning in pain and frustration.

"What the hell is happening to me?"

A bottle was deposited in his hands. It was red gatorade.

"Drink." Peter's voice was much more serious now. Neal grabbed the bottle with shaking hands.

"You couldn't have picked Lime? Or those transparent ones? I mean, did it have to be the same one, red gatorade? That's a bad joke, Peter."

"What, Neal?"

"I said, couldn't you have picked… couldn't have picked…"

Neal felt his eyes drooping. Peter turned on his seat, reaching in the back, and he grabbed Neal's wrist.

"Neal, speak clearly. Don't close your eyes."

"I'm saying… red gatorade… not funny…"

"Neal? Come on Neal."

_Wake me up when we get there._

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><p><strong>AN: I'm currently working on another story, but still I'm up for prompts. I'm hoping to diversify a little. Any suggestions are welcome! (and also, leave a review!). **


	19. Chapter 19

**I've been mostly separating by scenes by here are a couple of scenes bunched together, POV changes when there's a dividing line. I hope you enjoy it since this is the last chapter before the Epilogue. Hurray! **

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><p>Peter apologised to the woman waiting behind him as he pressed yet another coin into the payphone of the regional hospital. Initially his rugged appearance, the IV with fluids that he dragged behind from a rusty pole, and the large white plaster covering his leg up to his knee were enough to deter others from trying to force him to hung up, but now a queue had started, and he was beginning to feel the pressure.<p>

"What do you mean, the tracker stopped working? How could it stop working? The light was blinking, I checked and everything."

"I don't know, boss. The marshals haven't been able to tell me anything. Jones says they switched it off by mistake the moment they detected it was outside of the country, but they will never admit to that."

"You realise what that almost cost us."

"Yes, boss." Diana's voice had gradually regained control of the emotions she'd displayed the moment she'd picked up the phone, but now Peter could hear it was frayed at the edges, and he knew she'd been crying. "I know very well."

"All right. You've got the address of this place, right? How long until we can be on our way home?"

"I told the marshals to arrange an ambulance plane. Just so you'll be more comfortable. After I talked to them, they were more than happy to oblige."

"I hope talking was all you did…"

"You know me, boss. No one got hurt… Not too bad, at least."

Peter laughed. His voice still felt hoarse, but his laugh was returning to normal.

"So how are you?" Diana asked. Peter sighed - he knew the question was coming.

"I'll be all right. You'll be seeing me limp for a while, though. And I could do with a shower and a change of clothes."

"I'll see what we can do. And Neal?"

"You want the short answer, or the long one?" he asked, making an attempt at levity, although his voice remained flat and grave.

"Just the truth," said Diana. Peter sighed again, looking back at one of the many cots out in the hallway of the hospital.

"He'll need to have surgery as soon as we land. His head. Can't fix that here. And he's on antibiotics and… and transfussions and dialysis and—My God, I don't even know, I can't understand half of what they tell me and no one speaks English here."

"_Dialysis?_ What for?"

"Heat stroke, apparently, I don't know, something about shock, I don't know. Bottom line, they said it wasn't permament, I damn hope it's not permanent."

"Peter…" Diana's voice was compassionate, Peter could hear her hold her breath on the other side of the line. He shook his head and tried to keep his voice level.

"He'll be fine. We'll be all right, good as new, don't worry. If Elizabeth asks, tell her that, spare her the details or she'll freak out."

"You haven't called her?"

"I needed to know what on earth had happened, but I'm calling her now."

"Good luck with that. See you soon. And take care, Peter."

Peter reached for yet another coin, while he dialed another long number.

"Are you serious?" someone in the queue asked him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This won't take long."

* * *

><p>Neal saw Peter talking on a public phone at the end of the hallway. He was not close but he could see how his expression changed from glowing with love and relief to guilty and apologetic. For some reason he found that hilarious.<p>

"…hon…hon… I swear, this is the first chance I've had to contact you, you know I wouldn't have kept you waiting… Yes, I called Diana first, how did you…? She texted you. Well, there you go, you both knew exactly at the same time! No… no, I'm not taking this lightly, believe me, I know it's serious… I know. I know. God, you have no idea... Hon, I love you, but there are a lot people waiting to use the phone… No, I'm sorry. Yes, you have every right to… El, I _had_ to call her first, so I could get back sooner! You will be seeing me tomorrow, okay, and I will call you as soon as I have access again, but I really need to go. I swear I'lll call. I really need to go. I'm sorry. Bye hon."

There was a loud crash as the receiver of the phone was slammed against the rest of the device by one of the men waiting in line, and Peter was unceremoniously pushed away. Neal watched him walk back towards his cot, and he smiled at the embarassed look on his face.

"She's going to be so mad," he said. Peter leaned over, one hand against the tile walls of the crowded emergency room.

"Neal. They said you'd be asleep till nighttime."

"Well… surprise?" said Neal, rubbing his eyes. Several tubes pulled from his wrist, his voice was hoarse and tired. "This bed is too stiff. Something's digging into my back."

He tried to adjust himself but failed. He began to inspect the masking tape which made the cumbersome bits of plastic and wire stick to his skin, and his eyes wandered to the poorly hidded collection bags hanging from the railings of the bed and from the IV pole.

"Why am I lying here... when you're walking around?" he asked. Peter muttered something intelligible and then slowly sank down to the floor, where Neal could hardly see anything but tufts of his hair. "Peter?"

"That's because…" he said softly. "I didn't use my head to break a hole in a plane windshield and also because I didn't lie passed out under the noon sun for four hours."

"You can't be under a noon sun for hours," Neal replies. "You can only be under a noon sun... at noon. And that's just one time. You could say maybe an hour, but definitely-"

"Neal. Stop."

Neal tried to peer down but couldn't. Peter didn't speak again and so the sounds of the hospital became louder in their silence - machines whirring, nurses rushing, people screaming and complaining. It was only a few seconds, but even a fraction of that was already unbearable.

"What am I supposed to say?" Neal stared at the top of Peter's head, shifting. "I'm sorry?"

Peter turned back, raising his head.

"No, Neal. You're not supposed to say anything."

"Well, you weren't saying anything and—it's kind of loud in here." He lifted his hand, and brought it to his forehead, something wrapped around his head and it tickled. "This feels funny."

Peter scoffed.

"I don't think I can handle jokes right now."

"I'm not joking. My head feels funny."

"You cracked your skull. I'd call a doctor but they seem to be busy or in a coffee break or having fried chicken in a conference room like the nurses were, damn me if I see doctors actually working in this hospital…"

"Well, we're still alive… Aren't we?"

Peter was silent again. Neal tried again to peer down, but every movement seemed to require more strength than he had, and just trying left him feeling lightheaded. He rested back into the cardboard-like pillow, and stared at the ceiling. It wasn't tiled, like the walls. Tiny buzzing beetles kept bumping into the lightbulbs. When he stared too much at them, when he followed their erratic movements, he began to feel sick. He blinked several times. He didn't like this loud silence.

"Are you in a bad mood, Peter?" he asked. "You seem to me like you're in a bad mood."

"I'm not in a bad mood. I'm far, far, beyond 'bad mood', I'm exhausted, and hungry, and dirty, and my foot hurts, and my wife is mad at me, and my partner broke his head and keeps asking me stupid questions — you know what Neal? I'd rather not talk right now. I just want to go home."

"Now why are you mad at me all of a sudden? This doesn't seem fair, I was the one who was mad at you."

"I'm not—you were? Why were you mad at me?"

"Why? Why? You have to ask why? Didn't I tell you, like, a million times?"

"That you were coming to rescue me? That's what you're mad about, that you didn't get to be the one that takes the credit because you were too busy passing out in a beach while I was digging up in the sand for your body, thinking you'd been buried in a sandstorm? I'd trade places with you in an instant, Neal, just for that moment. You have no idea what that was like for me. At least you were half out of it most of the time."

"I — I — no that's unfair - you don't get it! I thought I'd… I thought I'd taken the water and left, Peter… I thought I'd been a coward and that I'd have to tell Elizabeth why you were dead. Every word… that I said… It all made sense to me… in my mind, how did you think I felt when you just stared at me… like I had just lost it? Going back for you was all I had left. Want to change places, Peter, for real? Let's change… right now! I can go in crutches to work… and you can go have holes drilled into your brain!"

Neal stopped, and took big gulping breaths, trying to keep his wheezing at bay. His head was still feeling odd, like it was covered in foam, but a drumming pain was making its way through it. Peter opened his mouth but did not immediately reply. He sat back down.

"You're not—Neal. You're not going to have holes drilled into your brain. They're not going to touch your brain, it's just your skull, now lets… Calm down. This isn't good for you. Let's just stop doing this to each other, this stupid bickering. Okay?"

"You—you started. I try to ease the tension and you bite my head off."

"I'm sorry... I'm just - I'm so tired... If it makes you feel better, we can tell that you brought the fishermen to me. It's just a matter of timing, really, I don't think it will affect the story or either of our statements."

"It wasn't to make me feel better, Peter, you still don't—"

"You'll tell the story, then. Okay? You'll tell the whole thing, even to El, your screw-ups, mine, all of it, I won't interrupt. But right now, can't we just call it even?"

Neal seemed to think about it for a moment, then he shrugged with a cracked lipped smile.

"Let's call it even."

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><p><strong>AN: You folks are awesome. I'm going straight to the inbox and answer your reviews because you make this writing experience so much better. Almost done here, I hope you have enjoyed it, I'll be back with more soon. Leave me a comment below if you'd like to tell me what you think!**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: We've come to the end of this journey. Thank you all for reading. **

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><p>Peter let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding when the plane took off. His hands touched the soft cloth of the seats, sprinkled here and there with orange sand that kept falling from his pockets and the folds of his clothes. In the large, more sofisticated bed Neal now occupied in the back of the plane, there was also sand and dirt staining the crisp white sheets. Neal still wore his tattered clothes. They were stained with his blood, just as Peter's were stained with Charlie's blood. Charlie, he remembered, was still out there in that desert they were flying above for a second time. He can see if he sits next to the window, and he knows that if he does, it will still look beautiful from a distance, beautiful and daunting and eternal. He knows he will remember it for a long time, even now that he hasn't even spent a full twenty-four hours indoors between the hospital and the plane, he already feels like it has all become much smaller. He knows he won't miss the desert but he will miss that feeling of awe at wide open desolation. He had never known before that the world could feel so big.<p>

The main dealers of the treasure are gone, the meetup deadline long past, but he is happy with the knowledge that at least they didn't get what they wanted. Diana had told him he'd have his chance again and then he'd do it right, it was just a matter of time, and he was okay with that.

He heard Diana's voice behind him, chatting with an increasingly sleepy Neal, and he felt a stiffness leaving his muscles. He needed to stand, it was so strange, and seeing both Neal and Diana looking away, he took his chance and walked sideways and away. He no longer had the IV, with already two bags in him he'd convinced the nurse he'd talke care of his hydration himself from then on, and so he only had to drag his plastered leg behind him, from the cabin to the bathroom. Being in an ambulance plane, the bathroom was much larger than in a commercial airline, and he managed to fit inside comfortable, shut the door, and then turned on the water from the tap. The sound of it, and the sweetness of it, when he tasted it, his whole head stuck in the sink, it was glorious. Relief rushed through him and he believed it then — _It's finally over. Thank God. _He suddenly felt like crying and he was glad there was no one there, no one to see. He covered his face with both his hands, rested his weight against the sink, and shook. He just shook, breathing hard, not quite sobbing but very close, and those shuddering images of endless sand, the despair that filled him when he thought it was all over, the feeling that he came so close, so close, that all was slowly washed away. _Thank God. Thank God. _

Relief pumped through his veins and it ran down in his tears. He had no idea of the tension and fear he had accumulated until it was all gone. Still shaking, he dialled home with the sat-phone he'd taken from Diana, and he waited for El to pick up. She only took two rings.

"Hello?"

"Hon, it's me," Peter said, and he had to sit down against the closed toilet seat and rub the dampness from his face. "I love you, hon. I just had to say it."

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><p>When he emerged from that bathroom, he was feeling stronger and happier than he'd felt before he'd stepped into the getaway plane. He hobbled to the back of the plane, and seeing that Diana was gone he went over in his head what he was going to say and how he was going to propose that they establish the narratable version of their story and got it straight before Diana pulled out her tape recorder and stopped with the small talk.<p>

When he reached Neal's side, he didn't look up, he appeared to be asleep or close to it. Peter thought of letting him rest, after all they both needed it, but the doctor had said no sleep, and besides there was something Neal still did not know. "Hey, Neal, wake up… Wake up!"

Neal opened his eyes, disoriented, and then his face twisted in fear. Every time he had woken up since they'd gotten out, he'd forgotten for a minute where he was and what had happened. This was no exception, but Peter waited patiently for it to pass, and then he lowered himself so he could face Neal at the same level.

"Hey, Neal."

"What? Oh." His eyes searched Peter for a moment before they found him. "Hey."

"Want to hear some good news?"

"The plane is here?"

"Neal, we're in the plane."

"Right, yes. Of course."

"It's better than that, anyway."

"Okay, now you have me officially intrigued." Neal's eyes widened and he stared more attentively at Peter. "Tell me."

"Remember Simon?"

Neal nodded. "Is he dead?"

"No. Do you wish him dead, Neal?"

"I have, several times. Please tell me he got arrested, then."

"He did. I dropped him at the jail myself. By the way, I forgot to mention, the fishermen who saved us wish you a good recovery and said they'd pray for you, despite the fact that you made them miss the only day at mass in which they get free food and wine. Or so they say."

"I hope you thanked them profusely on my behalf."

"I did. Rest assured."

"So… That's it?"

Peter smiled. "Of course not. See, you know there were three fishermen."

"Three? I only saw two."

"The third one was the one with the truck, the one who found me. And when he found me, he wasn't alone."

"Simon."

"Exactly. And guess what he'd filled the back of the pick-up with?"

"The loot! Peter, was it badly damaged? Where is it? Is it flying home with us? Can I see it?"

"Uh… it was as poorly kept as before, to your second question: it's in a warehouse; no, it's staying here, and no, you can't see it. Did I miss any?"

"No, you got them all. God, Peter… Why did you tell me… if I wasn't going to be able to do anything about it!"

"I thought all you cared about was for the pieces to be restored. And they will. Just not by us. I did, however manage to procure a little something for you." Peter dug his hand into one of his pockets, and extracted a roll of woven cloth kept in a plastic bag. "It was one of the pieces of a wrapping cloth that tore to shredds during landing. It was already incomplete."

Neal took the cloth, and then raised his eyes to Peter.

"Well, look at you… The FBI agent violating international jurisdiction laws and looting cloth from a tomb."

"It wasn't looting, the thing was broken, and the archaeologist I spoke to told me that cloth quality was worth next to nothing here anyway, they have so much of it, he basically gave it to me to take."

"Peter, more than half of the monuments in the Met were broken, and then restored."

"Well, if it bothers you so much, I'll send it back, so give it here."

"No."

"Then stop complaining about it."

Neal held the plastic bag to his face and gently touched the cloth through it. Peter could see the rough scratches and cuts in his hands, a result of his brief swim. They were all unbandaged, but none required stitches, so it wasn't as worrisome as all the other issues that had been explained to him in a fast monotone by the only doctor he'd seen in the regional hospital. He shook his head. It did him no good to dwell on those matters.

"We need to get our story straight," he said. Neal looked up, smiling, although his face now looked less lively, more pained.

"Our story straight? Spoken like a true conman."

Peter lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Do you want to tell Diana everything? I certainly don't. If we don't coordinate it might be obvious we're skipping parts."

"Okay. What should we skip?"

"Everything from where we found the wrecked car til we met again."

"That's going to be more than obvious."

"We'll just say we made our way out to the sea together. You were faster so you went ahead, and that's when we got separated. No need to make anything up."

"You say I went ahead… they're all going to assume I made a run for it."

"But you didn't. You were going to get help and you did, that will be official, and that's what I will say, so that's what they'll believe. Don't be so eager to think the worst."

"I'm just being-"

"You're being ridiculous. You wanted to be the one who found help? You'll be the one who finds help. Everyone wins."

"I didn't want you to say I was the one who found help, that's not…"

"That's not, what?"

"That's not what I wanted."

"Then what did you want?"

"I wanted it to be true."

Peter sighed, and touched Neal's shoulder lightly.

"Well, I can't help you with that, unfortunately."

"Yes. I know."

"They say that it's the intention that matters."

"They also say the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

"You need to stop spending time with Mozzie."

"Mozzie didn't teach me that one."

"Neal, we made it. We both made it, and right now, I don't care one bit about the how, or the why, or who has the most merit or the most fault. We both made it, we are alive, and that's the best outcome I could've hoped for since the crash. For all I did, I'm sorry. I already know you're sorry for whatever you may have done. We have already forgiven each other. Let everyone else think what they want, I don't care and neither should you."

* * *

><p>Neal blinked a few times and then looked away. His back ached despite the more comfortable bed, all the little cuts and scratches and bruises were starting to throb, and he felt an all encompassing weakness unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Moving his head, even if only slightly, made the plane shift around him and the dizziness took a while to fade. Of course, that was to be expected, seeing as he'd hit himself so hard by all accounts he should be dead or at least brain damaged, but he had a shoddy plane with a thin plexiglass windshield to thank for that. They were going to fix him when he landed, and he would be all right, but the prospect of someone messing with his head filled him with terror. Anything could happen. Couldn't they just sow it up and let the bones heal themselves? Wasn't that how it usually worked? Was is absolutely necessary?<p>

He wished he could close his eyes, go to sleep, and wake up fresh and healthy back in June's place. He would wake up late, head down to the office to say hi to everyone, go out to lunch to a nice place, and come back home to drink some wine with Mozzie while hearing him babble on about one of his preestablished topics of conversation. Better yet if Peter was there, and El as well, so he'd tell her the better, braver, more entertaining bits of their adventure, ommitting all the details in which he pulled out bodies from a wrecked truck, called Peter a coward, and fought over a bottle of Gatorade. He'd tell her only of his valiant jump into the ocean. Of their finding of the cactus. The sunsets every afternoon, how hot it was, how blue the ocean shined. He'd make it like a story, like an adventure story, and he and Peter would stick to that story and they would tell it over and over until they forgot all those bad bits.

Yes. That would be a good day. And it would be a good story to tell the hypothetical grandchildren, with all its highs and lows. Looking back he knew there were several things he regretted, things he knew had been wrong, or short-sighted, harsh words he now saw were uncalled for, but he found that even when bringing back to the front of his mind the most painful memories of the past few days, he wasn't ashamed of any of it. They were the sort of memories that you never want to relive, but that you never find yourself wishing had never happened, either.

"What are you thinking?" Peter asked, breaking the silence. Neal looked sideways at him, blinking back the exhaustion from his eyes. He realised he never answered Peter. He didn't even know how ago it was that they'd been talking.

"Besides the fact that in a few hours I'll have people drilling into my head?"

"They're not going to—"

"But they are. How do you think they'll put the pieces back together, with glue?"

"Neal…"

"What if they do it wrong? I mean, they could do it wrong, doctors get it wrong all the time…"

"They're not going to get it wrong."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. Now, tell me what you were really thinking."

"How do you—"

"Neal…"

"I was just… thinking that if I could go back in time… I wouldn't change a thing."

Peter frowned at that, like he wasn't expecting it.

"Why?" he asked. Neal moved his shoulders in as close as he came to a shrug in his current position.

"I've gone over it. There's nothing I could've done that would've changed things. If I had checked the seatbelt, I wouldn't have hit my head, but I would've stayed in the cockpit and be crushed there. If I had stayed where you left me, I would've never found the fishermen who gave me water."

"I would change plenty," Peter said. "Starting by convincing Simon to leave Charlie at the landing strip. He was just a kid, Neal… His sister was there when I spoke with the policemen in the hospital…"

"You wouldn't have changed his mind," Neal said. "You're not reponsible for that, Peter."

Peter just shook his head. "Someone is always at fault when these things happen, and it's always worse when we're on foreign soil. They will look for who's responsible, there will be an inquiry, they'll be looking at me, they'll be looking at you, at Diana, at Hughes, they will analyze and correlate all our actions…"

"So? Let them do it. Our story is foolproof anyway."

Peter chuckled.

"Our story… Stick to the story, right? That's the idea?"

"That's the idea exactly. We stick to the story."

They both felt the slight pull of a smile in their faces, but they kept their eyes averted from each other. Neal could feel sleep draining his resolve to stay awake and appear calm and in control, and he knew that he would not be able to keep on talking lucidly for much longer. Soon his thoughts would drift back to the fear of imminent surgery, and he would rather be asleep than think of that.

"We'll laugh about this one day, when we're old," he said, and yawned. "Maybe we'll cry a little bit, but… but we'll laugh harder. I just know it."

"How do you know it, Neal?"

"Because if we're still friends after this… I think we can still be friends through anything."

Peter smiled and watched as Neal turned away and closed his eyes. He went back to his seat and thought of sleeping himself, but the sun was just setting and orange light was streaming through the window to his left, straight into his eyes. He reached to close the blind, but he stopped himself short, and he moved to the window seat in order to look at the scene below. Though this plane flew much higher in the sky, there was no fog or clouds blocking the view far below. As he watched, they left behind a large expanse of sand, they crossed a river, and from then on, all he saw below them was bright, bright green.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is the end. Thanks to all of you who've been along for the ride, and I hope you have enjoyed this as much as I have. If you liked this, regardless of whether you've reviewed before or not or are a guest, I'd love to hear what you think. Even if you're reading this ages since I posted it, your review will reach my email and I will cherish it all the more. Until the next time! **


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